The Lumberjack and the Tree Elf
by Oisin55
Summary: Johanna Mason said Blight "wasn't much, but he was from home." And even someone who isn't much has to have a story. This is the brilliant and manipulative young man who was forced into the Games by his own district. This is Blight Gavin. This is the Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

Blight:

Sitting up in a tree is not considered to be the most productive use of time in District 7. I suppose to an extent this is ironic, since our district is covered in nothing but trees. Oaks, elms, birch. If there's one thing that every citizen is familiar with, it's trees. If there's one thing that every citizen would be glad never seeing again, it's also trees. However, the business of 7 is not to go up trees, but to bring them down. They are then stripped, cut into planks, and shipped off to the Capitol to be used for whatever damned purpose they need so much wood for. I sure don't know. They get coal for fuel from 12. From what I've seen on the television the buildings in the shining city are mostly made of metal and stone. Whatever happens to our wood in the Capitol, it's probably for something frivolous. Or maybe they eat it. Or maybe it's why every Capitol citizen walks around like he has a stick jammed right up his -

*Snap*

My eyes fly open and I spring up from the limb where I was lounging just a moment ago. I've never felt unease at being far up in the trees. I've been at home here since I was three years old, and would run out of our home when I felt it was more beneficial to my health to not be around. I would flee deep into the forest that practically blankets 7 and find a tall, reassuring oak to huddle in for a few hours until I was sure that my father was blacked out and my brothers were too exhausted to give me trouble. Only then would I climb down, sneak home, and climb into the tiny kitchen where I slept by the hearth, pretending that I had never left.

I search for the source of the disturbance but it's nothing but a turkey making its way below me. I warn it that its choice of destination is unwise. If it continues its path towards the lumber camp, then chances are someone will be eating well tonight. The turkey doesn't divert its path. I sigh and make myself comfortable again. I can count on one hand the times that a turkey has listened to my good advice. They're not like the horses.

There's a reason that I can feel at ease here, taking a light nap while the rest of the men - and many of the women - from our village in 7 work at back-breaking labor. I get up earlier than any of the other lumbermen. Probably earlier than anyone in the village, and possibly the district. Hours before dawn, I leave my mat by the hearth and go to the stables that house the massive draft horses that transport the massive logs from the forests to the workshops where they are made into usable lumber and paper. I'm the one who feeds and waters the horses, puts on harnesses, and checks them over for problems. I'll put saddle and tack on the couple of younger geldings that are reserved for the Head Peacekeepers that monitor the lumber camps. By the time I'm done, dawn has broken and I'll ride a gelding - a blue roan named Peaches - to the camp. The rest of the herd follows me to where men are waiting with the massive contraptions that connect beast to tree. They take over from there, and my morning work is done. After that, it's my job to stay out of the way, but not so far that I can't be called if needed. If one of the draft horses picks up a stone, or is hurt by one of the wild dogs that occasionally are desperate enough to make an attempt on such a large animal, or collapses from exhaustion or pain, it's my job to come and oversee the solution. I either fix the problem, give advice on how the problem needs to be fixed, or make the call on whether the animal needs to be put out of his misery.

I've been told a hundred times it's too much responsibility for a sixteen year old, and it took a couple of years before men twice my age and usually about three times my weight would take what I said seriously. But results speak. Before I started working in the stables, it would take a ten man crew to prepare the horses and lead them to the camp. Now it's only me. The relationship I have with horses makes up for my relationship with pretty much every human individual in the district. The horses adore me. People overwhelmingly ignore me. It's when they show me attention that I get worried, because unless it has to do with the horses it's very rarely a good thing.

I rub my shoulder and resist examining the bruise that I know is flowering over it, the mark of the most recent attention I've gotten from my father. He was waiting for me when I left the stables this morning, and caught me smartly on the shoulder. "Get these beasts moving, boy," he said. "I'm not feeding you to play with ponies. If you're not at the camp in twenty, don't bother coming to the table tonight."

The threat was useless. I already knew I wouldn't be eating tonight, already saw the food that had been prepared ahead of time in three portions for my father and my two brothers. I wanted to say that the horses were too skittish to get going because my dad's face made them nervous but that would have gotten me a broken nose instead of a sore shoulder. So I left and made mental notes of where I could fill up on berry patches throughout the day before I had to be back at the camp.

My stomach is reasonably full on blackberries and crab apples. There's no reason I can't take a quick nap and try to forget that today is the day of the reaping.

As if it's easy to not think about being sent to your death. Like the two tributes who went to the Capitol last year. Twelve year olds, both of them. At least their families weren't forced to endure the torture too long. Both went down on the first day. I really hope no twelve year olds are chosen this year. Almost as much as I hope that I'm not chosen this year. And that of course is far more likely.

I'm the only one in my family who takes tesserae because I'm the only one able to anyway. Abel and Jonel, my older brothers, are done with reapings, but of course everyone in my family is required to do what is necessary to put food on the table. Or rather, my tesserae puts food on the table, as do Jonel's wages. Abel and my father turn most of the sesterces that fall into their hands into large pints of beer in the tavern. In a year, when he's old enough, Jonel will do the same, and I'll be taking out even more tesserae.

But there's no use losing sleep over it. The reaping is at five, and it's still a few hours before we all need to be assembled in the square. Best not to think of it. Normally on Reaping Day, we all get a day off to sleep in. It's a holiday after all. But my village is behind the quota and a morning's work should catch us up enough that the Peacekeepers don't give Mayor Lourdes, or us, any trouble.

I have just gotten comfortable in my tree again when I again here the sound of footsteps. Not the slow, delicate step of the wildlife but the steady tramp of boots and dumb human. Sure enough, I can see a number of large figures making their way through the trees. After a moment I can hear their voices.

"Blight! Blighty-Tighty-Whitey! Where are you, you stupid moss-wipe?"

Large builds and heavy footsteps run in my district. Not good company.

I begin sliding down the tree, dropping swiftly from limb to limb. It's the work of maybe half a minute to drop fifty feet, but I'm so high up that I'm not immediately noticed. By the time I'm fifteen feet off the ground, my little search party has passed my tree by.

"He's not here. Maybe he's gotten his girl-ass back to the camp. Check the ravine first and then head back."

I choose that moment to leap to the ground. I don't make a sound when I land, so when the five young men turn around, I'm there waiting. I recognize them all, to some degree. They've all left school, but not one of them is far into his twenties. Mostly, I've seen them hang around my brothers. Which means that tormenting me when I'm around and can't escape has been a regular pastime for years. We're practically bosom buddies. Before they make a sound, I put my hand to my lips.

"Don't. Move. Any of you."

They freeze. One of them, who must weigh at least a hundred pounds more than me, hisses "What? What is it."

"There's a wild dog. Standing right behind you."

They all immediately tense and look around frantically, but then simultaneously remember not to move. "Where? Is it gone? Is it looking at us?"

"Wait...it's turning this way...Oh never mind, it's just you, Connell."

Connell, the biggest bloke, grows a very unique sense of violet usually reserved for rashes in sensitive places. "Not funny you little mole-turd."

"Hey. I'm sorry, honest mistake."

Connell flashes me a gesture that wishes me a gruesome death. "Well I'm getting a good look at you and I can still see what you are. Stupid, filthy little tree-elf."

Unlike Connell, I don't blush. But that doesn't mean I hate him any less.


	2. Chapter 2

Jason:

"Stupid, filthy little tree-elf."

I laugh along with the others, even though it's really not that funny. Tree-elf is a nasty thing to call someone, but the combination of Connell's red face and the kid's little grin makes it twice as funny as it normally would be. Don't get me wrong, I would never, ever, call someone a name like that but it's not like he hasn't heard it before anyway.

And besides, I mean, just look at the kid. Even though 'tree-elf' has nothing to do with trees of course, the kid does strongly resemble the idea right now. There are bits of leaves in his hair and his features are streaked with dirt from climbing the trees all morning. At least I think it's dirt. I know he takes care of the horses, so I sincerely hope it isn't something disgusting. And then there's his slight build, which is so unusual for District 7 and the look on his nature-baby face as he looks at us. Tree-elf just fits. So it's funny. I guess.

The kid shakes his head and walks past us. "Oh Connell," he sighs. "The reapings were far too kind to you."

Low blow. Fortunately I don't think Connell really gets the meaning. He's one of my best mates but he's not exactly the brightest candle.

Tobin does though. "Well, it's not going to be any of us standing in the square today, little elf," he says.

The kid makes an ironic half-bow. "And I'm sure you will all be there to cheer me on if the odds are not in my favor." He mimics the nasally Capitol accent as he says this and he actually does an extraordinarily accurate imitation. I let out a snort of laughter that I hastily turn into a cough as the others look at me.

"We're not here to make conversation. Get back to camp. We're packing up." I'm not technically the squad leader, Connell is, but I'm eager to get back before someone says or does something stupid. Stupider.

Fortunately no one says anything more as Tobin, Connell, Ram and Ercole follow my lead. We set back off through the camp, trying to retrace our steps. I let Ram take the lead since he's got the best sense of direction. I don't bother to wait and see if the kid follows. As far as I've seen, he never fools around where the horses are concerned. He'll follow us. In fact, he'll probably beat us back. In the meantime, Ram seems to make good time as we come about a half mile from where the camp is until we reach a stream that we definitely didn't cross on our way to find the kid.

"Damn," whispers Ram. "We must have come too far south."

I've just let a few choice swear words drop when there's a rustle off to my left. I look over just in time to see the kid bolting towards the stream, a long branch in hand. In one movement he jams the end of the branch into the soft earth and uses it to vault himself high into the air over the stream. He releases the branch and in the same movement grabs the limb of an overhanging oak. In another few seconds he's scurried along the tree limb and dropped to the ground without a backwards look. One look at the faces of my mates shows that we're all quite impressed against our mutual will.

"Look at the elf fly," mutters Tobin. The others snicker or make similar statements. I sigh and resign myself to getting my feet wet.

It takes ten minutes to get us all down the bank, across the stream and back up. Fortunately we can hear the sounds of the camp once we're on the other side. Getting there requires another twenty minutes and by the time we're back most of the crews are getting ready to leave. My own crew leader, Mack, raises an eyebrow.

"Took you long enough. How hard is it to find one kid?"

I grin at him. "Finding him was simple. Getting back was the tough part. I don't care what Connell says, that's the last time Ram gets to pick the trail."

Mack laughs. "His father was the same when we were your age. So much talk about his great talents as a woodsman, and then when you get him out into the forest, he can't find the way home because there are too many trees blocking his view." His voice drops to a low murmur. "Don't ever mention to old Burgen that I said this, but the best woodsman in District 7 is the one camped out in front of his kitchen fire every night."

I look towards the direction he jabs his thumb. About twenty yards behind us, the kid is helping remove the dragging equipment from the horses. As he does, he strokes the animals' sides and whispers what I can only assume are reassuring words. Gone is the look he wears when he's addressing another human being. It's hard to compare that image to the sneering kid we found up a tree.

I look back at Mack. "Woodsman? Really? Look at the size of the bugger. He probably couldn't swing an axe, much less bring anything down. You still drunk from the Tav last night, mate?"

Mack shakes his head. "I'm not talking about being a lumberjack. You and I-" he claps my back. "We're lumberjacks. Men of the industry. But Blight there...he's never going to be one of us and we know it. His father knows it. He knows it himself. But no one knows these woods like he does. If any one of the men on my crew had to make it in the forest for a few days, my money would be on that little moss-wipe. If you ask me, his father doesn't know or care what a good thing he's got..." His voice drifts off. "Ah well, it's not my place or yours to speak. We've cleaned up things here, so pack up your own gear and head out."

"Right," I say. "I'll see you in the square then.

Mack's eyes are suddenly serious. "You got anyone there this year, Jason?"

I shake my head. "Only got me and my older sister, and we're both ineligible now that I'm nineteen. My nephew and niece aren't old enough yet. Cousins are out of the running too. Yourself?"

"It's my Darra's first year," says Mack. "Only one slip. No tesserae. My wife and I made sure."

"Well the odds are in your favor then."

I gather up my gear as Mack heads off. Pack, canteen, two axes - carefully returned to the storeroom that's guarded through the night by two Peacekeepers - and clean shirt so my mother will let me in the house without having to bathe in the chilly woodshed first. As I finish, I notice that the kid - Blight - is about to leave with the horses. I can't help but watch him work for a moment. The ease with which he handles the beasts, all of which could easily trample him in a heartbeat if they had a mind to - is really quite astounding. It's hard for me to remember sometimes that he's related to Jonel, which is sort of stupid since Jonel is another one of my good mates. But maybe it's not so surprising when you consider that I can count on one hand the amount of times I've spoken to the kid. He keeps to himself for the most part. He did when we were in school together and since we were three years apart I only knew him as Jonel's brother. I feel bad for him in a way, since everyone knows what goes on in his house. No mom. Dad's the town drunk. His brothers are good blokes, I guess, but they don't really talk much about Blight. Blight, even the name makes him the butt of jokes. I mean, who in their right mind names their kid after some sort of disease? Like Mack said, it's not my place to ask. Still, he looks happy enough with the horses.

I don't know why I do it. My gear is packed. I'm set to go home. But I suddenly find myself walking towards that eerily quiet herd. I've had to handle the horses a number of times since I left school and started work in the forests. Getting them to do what you want is a combination of training, intimidation, and bribes. Except for Blight. Which is why he dropped out of school to handle the herd. Probably makes more money than his dad brings in as well. You think he'd be able to afford to eat a bit more.

One of the mares is uncomfortable with my presence, and as I pass her by I get a flash of teeth as she lunges towards me. Just as quickly, Blight is there, holding her muzzle and whispering again. He blows into her nostrils, and she shies away. Blight tells her that she's a good girl, really a very good girl, and then he turns to me.

"Something you need, lumber ass? My job isn't done yet, so I really hope you're not here to waste more of my time."

He's looking at me with that way he has, where it seems that no matter how I answer, I'll be subject to any amount of retorts. So I go for the honest approach.

"Well you know, I'm all packed so I thought I'd see if you needed any help."

His face doesn't change. "Have I needed help for the past two years?"

"Yeah I know, but today's different. You've got to look nice later."

He looks at me. I've never noticed his eyes before, granted I've never had cause to really examine them, but I realize that they are extraordinary. The same grey-blue that Abel and Jonel have but somehow brighter. More intelligent. Where his face is impassive, his eyes are filled with laughter, and suddenly I'm struck by the desire to try and make him laugh. Which is stupid, especially because if he has cause to laugh it will probably be directed at me. I try to cover the pause.

"I'm Jason."

"I know."

"And you're Blight."

"I know."

Gods I'm such an idiot.

I'm ready to turn and walk away with a beet red face when Blight speaks again. "Well, gods all know that I've got a thousand things to do before the Reaping. My hair, my eyebrows, and who can tell what state my fingernails are in after such an exhausting day. Pick a mount and let's head back."

I've ridden before. Plenty of times. But Blight is up and settled on his gelding before my foot is even in the stirrup of one of the Peacemaker's mounts. I'm pretty comfortable on a horse but next to Blight - who is riding bareback of all things - I feel like a sack of beans. Fortunately, Blight is more concerned about his herd at this point and we make our way back to the stables in relative silence.

There are several young lads waiting when we arrive. Most of them are school age but are too young to need to get ready for the reaping. They make a few sesterces by helping Blight groom the horses and clean the saddles and tack. I do what I can to help, trying to ignore the snickers that sometimes arise at the clumsy efforts of the big blond lumberjack. To his credit, Blight doesn't scold or sneer at any of us, just giving direction when he can. Showing one lad the spots he missed on the tack, helping another girl brush the burrs off one of the ponies that carry spare supplies, laying his hand on mine as he shows me how longer, cleaner brush strokes on the gelding I'm grooming get the job done faster.

"If there's one thing that the ancient Americans understood, it's how to breed a horse," he says to no one in particular.

The phrase is familiar but I can't place it. "The ancient Americans?"

"Yeah. You know. The people who lived here before it was Panem. The ones who built the old roads and the Giants' City.

I laugh. "You really believe that rubbish? Buildings a thousand feet high and cities that could house all of Panem?"

Blight smiles. "We're not likely to find out, are we? Not from the Capitol at least."

The horses are fed and stabled much quicker than I expect and suddenly I'm alone in the stable with Blight. He's not looking at me, rather he's saying a final goodbye to his gelding. I know better than to ask, but I can't stop myself from blurting it out.

"How are things at home, Blight?"

He doesn't turn around. For a long time he doesn't speak. "Why don't you just ask Jonel?"

"Because I don't think Jonel would give me a good answer." What the hell am I saying? This is none of my business. Jonel's my mate. And Blight's the village joke. My traitor mouth keeps moving, however. "I've heard things have been rough. With your dad. And without your mom."

"Don't." Blight finally looks at me. "I'm fine when I'm here. I'm not home enough to care. In the stable, in the forests, I'm fine. Just leave it. Laugh with Jonel. Laugh with all your little mates. I came to terms with it a long time ago."

Something contracts in my stomach. I realize that it's pity. And guilt. Because I know I've said some of those things about Blight. We all have. Maybe not with feeling. Or with the venom I've heard from his brothers. But...I've said them. And I have nothing to say.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I mutter as I turn to leave.

"If I'm still in the district tomorrow."

I finally meet Blight's eyes and behind the laughter and fire that I see there, I can see something else. I recognize it. It's the same thing I felt for the past seven years, as I stood in the square and prayed to all the gods that my name wouldn't be chosen.

"You'll be fine. You've got what, five slips?"

"Twenty-five. My tesserae feeds us. My wages are spent in the Tav. By my father. And by Abel. And soon by Jonel."

I don't have anything to say now. But as I look at the slight sixteen year old in front of me, I realize that he's not much younger than me. And that we may have more in common than I'm ready to admit. And suddenly I want to take him, and hold him, and tell him that it'll be alright, alright, and that he doesn't have to be afraid. And that sudden impulse makes me feel more ashamed than the guilt from a minute ago.

Blight turns to leave. I can't help saying it. "Well, good luck mate. And may the odds..."

Blight looks back at me, smiling, and for once his smile has no mockery in it. "Be ever in your favor," he finishes.


	3. Chapter 3

Blight:

I'm still thinking about my strange run-in with Jason when I get back. I've never said more than nine words to the bloke before today, all of them tinged with my usual verve and wit. That is to say, all of them rather insulting. To be fair, he's been one of the most tolerable of Jonel's mates - they come around our place frequently after it's too dark to work in the forests, as Abel and Jonel are the ringleaders of their little crew. Normally, Jason and I treat each other with mutual disregard to the other's existence. There have been exceptions, of course. Like the time he locked me in the shed where we keep kindling. Peacekeepers heard me hollering and brought me home. I got a beating from Dad that still sticks in my memory. Then there was the time during mandatory physical activity time in school when he hurled a ball at me so hard I was knocked out. And always, tree-elf, tree elf- tree elf, the name has rolled off his tongue to general laughter and approval just like everyone else.

Of course, if I came out and confessed that I actually was a tree elf, things would be a lot worse.

So why did he follow me to the stables today? He didn't try to hinder my work or make jokes at my expense - not that he would have found it easy, the stables are my territory. He seemed genuinely kind. And when the reaping came up, the look in his eyes was terrible. And he's not even eligible. For a moment, I had wished that Jason actually was my friend. And for the briefest moment, I wondered what it would be like if he were more. If I had someone in this district who was willing to be more than a friend.

I shake the thought away as I reach home. I go to the back door of our little shack to the stone floor where my mat is stretched out besides the hearth. Dad sleeps in the only bedroom. Abel and Jonel have cots that they sleep in in the common room where the battered old television is. I get the floor by the kitchen. Which isn't so bad. I leave the back door open in summer so it's cool and the fire warms it in winter. I get a bit of solitude from my family that I don't when we eat or watch mandatory viewing.

I have barely stretched out across my mat - my back is one gigantic knot - when a snarl that could easily be mistaken for a wild dog in heat gets me back up.

"Get up you lazy runt! I don't run an inn for layabouts! Up! Now!"

Dear old Dad. He's started drinking rather early today, and somehow, I don't think it's because of the stress of his youngest son facing the reaping. I get up and face him. Like the rest of the men in this district, he's built big. Huge, in fact. I inherited nothing from him but his blue-grey eyes, which are now narrowed in intense dislike.

"Blight of my life," he mutters. "Should've drowned you at birth."

"Yeah Dad, but in your mercy you allowed me the opportunity to take tesserae to contribute what little I can to support this family." I know my dad's rants by heart.

"Get dressed. If you're late for the reaping I'll turn you over to the Peacekeepers and then tan what's left of you."

I raise an eyebrow. "The reaping's not for an hour. The square is a quarter of a mile away. And unlike someone in this room, I won't be stumbling there."

I duck my head as I see the blow coming my way, but it still catches me on the right ear. I stumble back, nearly landing in the embers of the fire. I hit the hearth hard enough to bruise but don't give my dad the satisfaction of seeing me rub my sore shoulder.

He looks at me through baleful eyes. "Get dressed for the reaping. Blight." He spits out the last word like a curse and walks out.

I fight against the surge of hatred that wells up in me, and release it in one long, drawn-out breath. It's no use. I should be - I am - used to this by now. I've only got two years till I'm eighteen, done with the reapings, and able to sign up to get a residence of my own. Two years. Right now, it feels like an eternity.

I'm told by men on the crew that my dad used to be one of the sweetest men in the district. He was the crew leader that everyone wanted to work under. Handsome, sensitive, always gathering flowers in the forest, tucking them in his flannel coat pockets and deftly twisting them together into a bouquet to present to my mother when he arrived home. I can hardly remember those days. I was only seven when we woke up to find my mother's side of the bed empty. Laughing Peacekeepers told us how she and the Head Peacekeeper had been stealing away in the night for mysterious assignations. He had been reassigned and she had left with him. They were in District 2 now, they said. Making lumber-babies together.

Overnight, my father gave himself up to drink. He became the vindictive, cruel man he is now. He used alcohol to block out the whispers that passed not so unheard through the district. The man who married the Peacekeepers' slut. The Capitol Cuckold. The father of the whore's children. He still did - still does - his job, goes to the forest to man his crew, but no one crosses him for fear of his legendary temper. And of course he doesn't gather any more flowers.

Abel and Jonel are my dad's sons. Big, blond, and burly. Short tempers, and a mean streak that stretches from here to District 12. Abel's the worse, especially now that he spends his evenings in the Tav with my father, cavorting with the wenches and frittering away all our wages. Not that Jonel is much better, nor the crew of mates they head. But me. In looks I take after my mother, except for the eyes. I'm dark - haired, with sharply cut features. Mack - the only person in the district that I talk to with any amount of civility - once told me that my mother was the most beautiful woman in 7 and that I echo her loveliness. I was irritated at first until I realized that Mack wasn't tried to insult me.

So I echo my mother's loveliness, and remind my father every day of the whore that humiliated him. That's how I got my name. Blight. The disease of his life. And it's been my name throughout the District since. I doubt anyone even remembers what my real name is.

My dad's angry eyes are suddenly replaced in my mind by a new pair. To my utter disgust, I realize that they're Jason's and that I'm suddenly thinking about how I want to look good in the square. I'm still berating myself for my vain conceit as I scrub my face and neck vigorously in the tepid water from the washroom tap. I'm reminding myself that I don't even like Jason as I carefully lay out my tan dress pants and choose a dark blue shirt that I hope will make my dark features stand out. Looking in the dirty mirror, I am pleased to see that I have grown out since last year and that the shirt shows that I've gained some muscular definition. If I happen to see Jason in the square, I'll look much more like a well-kept man and less like the dirt-streaked boy up a tree.

I've been in the bathroom twenty minutes trying to make my close-cropped hair stop sticking up in the back. I've turned into a preening, prattling girl. Gods help me.

Abel and Jonel are in the common room trying to get the television to work. The only station they can get in clearly is showing coverage of the Reaping in District 10. I turn away so that I can leave without them seeing me, but no such luck.

"Going somewhere, elf?"

I turn. "I fancy a walk, Abel. And so will you if you know what's good for you. Better get down to the square sharpish. Dad's in a mood about it."

Abel smirks. "Only for you, moss-wipe. We don't need to worry about the odds anymore."

"You better hope the odds are in my favor. It's my tesserae that you're eating every night."

Abel's smile is cold. Brutally so, and I don't know why I'm getting chills. "I don't think we're going to have to worry about that much longer."

I have no idea what he's talking about. His look says something more than the thuggish temper of my father or the nasty epithets from his mates. I look at Jonel, who's sitting on the rickety couch next to him. He's not looking at me, focusing instead on the hysterical girl from 10 on the television screen who's climbing up the stage. I suddenly don't want to be near either of them. I turn to leave. As soon as I leave the house, I break into a run.

I need to go to the town square. I need to report into the Peacekeeper's check-in and state my name so that they know I'm there and accounted for. But I find my feet taking me in a totally different direction. It's not far to the woodshed where all the allotted lumber for the families on my street is kept. The one that Jason locked me in years ago. Behind the tiny building is a pile of cinder blocks that have lain there forever. I go to the pile and remove one block from the middle. From the space behind I pull out three small wooden statues: a man, a woman and a small cat. They were the household gods that my mom brought from her home to ours. My dad threw them out when she left, but I retrieved them and hid them here. I don't know who they're supposed to be anymore. But now I look at the small carved figurine of the woman and I know exactly who I want her to be.

"Please, Mom, don't let it be me," I whisper. "Don't let it be me. Don't let it be me. Don't let it be me."

The square is hung with colorful banners and streamers. There is a festive feel in the air. Camera crews are perched on top of the shops and flats of the wealthier class of 7, those whose trades or skills allow them to avoid going into the forests every day. Rowdy sounds are coming from inside the Tav, where lumberjacks are enjoying their afternoon off before emptying out into the square. The stage has been built, as usual, in front of the magnificent old Justice Building, really the only stone structure in the district. Its massive marble pillars and shining gold-gilt dome are always imposing and dreadfully out of place in the lumber district.

I'm standing with the other sixteen-year-olds in our large pen, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The square is already packed. Most of the town is here, as well as a good chunk of the outlying villages. Not everyone can attend the reapings from the farthest towns, so they hold preliminary reapings to determine which children and families are required to attend. We live in a big district. The only other one to follow this procedure is 11. Or so I've heard.

Five chairs are set up on the stage, four occupied. Three of them are former Victors from our district. The oldest is Jules. Mack once confided to me that Jules mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open so he doesn't have to pay attention to the reapings. Vera, who won her Games by tracking her opponents and stabbing them one by one in their sleep. She's older as well, but she's succumbed to the Capitol trend of surgery to make herself look young. And the most recent Victor from ten years ago. Eamon. The Capitol's darling. Women (and a couple of men) swoon every time he smiles. Even I can't deny that at twenty-five he's the handsomest man I've seen. Still, I don't like him much, even though we've never spoken. He was the man who first supplied my Dad with alcohol when my mom ran off. They've been drinking mates ever since.

In contrast, Mayor Lourdes is sitting to the left of the Victors and he is the very model of controlled propriety. Hands folded, head high, staring ahead. The only vacant place belongs to the Capitol escort who arrives every year, Tutti Marble. No bets on where she is right now. As if on cue, the great clock on the Justice Building chimes five and the Tav empties out into the square. Tutti is among the rugged woodsmen, laughing and flirting outrageously. Her pea-green suit is appallingly out of place here. More so is her matching beehive hair and the flowers inlaid in her cheeks.

Tutti trips her way up the stage and takes her place besides Eamon. He offers his hand and a smile and she responds with a big, sloppy kiss. Mayor Lourdes clears his throat and walks up to the podium. I prepare myself for the tedium of the speech. It's the same every year. How ancient America collapsed due to her own corruption and decay and the ravages of nature. How Panem rose to take the place in a glorious new society. How we, the districts, betrayed the trust of the Capitol by rebelling during the Dark Days. And how as punishment, we send one young man and woman between twelve and eighteen each year to slaughter each other in the Hunger Games. Nothing we haven't heard before. Nothing we haven't been forced to watch year after year. Every child knows why we're standing in this square trembling in fear.

I can barely listen to the Treaty of Treason, which is easy because I can hardly hear it. Mayor Lourdes is soft-spoken and timid looking and utterly undistinguishable. Here in 7, he is a legend and we are all fiercely proud of him. I don't remember the brutal winter that scoured District 7 thirteen years ago, but we all know the tale. How the district was starving to death. How Mayor Lourdes organized foraging companies of lumberjacks, merchants, and Peacekeepers to hunt out in the forests. The Capitol heard of course. From informers who got extra bread. Poaching was strictly forbidden. Mayor Lourdes and his wife were summoned to the Capitol to face charges of treason before President Snow himself.

The speech Lourdes made before the President is justly renowned. "Strong men bring you many trees! Weak men bring few! Dead men bring none!" The mayor of 7 defended his actions by claiming they were for the good of the Capitol. He had broken laws solely so that the district would not fail in their desire to serve our beloved President. His words were backed up by the Peacekeepers who testified that the mayor had insisted that they receive equal shares from the hunt so they would not starve as well. In the minds of the Capitol, District 7 had gone from the brink of treason to a people willing to risk their lives to serve their beloved leaders. Ever since that day, hunting and gathering in 7 has been allowed and licensed, with equal shares going to the Peacekeepers. The Capitol even allowed the building and opening of the Tav. The tax on the liquor is exorbitant, but the Capitol would rather have the district workers gather in a place where Peacekeepers mingle and keep watch.

Mayor Lourdes returned to the District as a hero. But no one, no one defies the Capitol and gets away with it. The Mayor returned alone. His wife was not with him. Common rumor says that Snow took a liking to her and added her to his harem as a reminder of how completely in control the Capitol is.

Today, two young children will follow her.

The speech is done. Lourdes returns to his seat. Tutti struts to the stage.

"Welcome all! And Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!" she trills. She gives all the kids assembled a huge wink. A hundred comments about her hair run through my mind, and I almost hope to be reaped just so I could say some of them to her face. "Which one of you lovely young women and handsome strapping men will receive the honor of representing your district in the Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games? It's time to find out!"

She walks to the enormous glass bowl containing thousands of slips of paper. She reaches in and rummages for a few seconds. I think she knows how terrified we all are, kids and relatives alike, and enjoys it. I can't control my feeling of contempt and I'm sure it shows on my face. Well, good. The cameras aren't on me after all.

She settles on a slip and pulls it out. Opens it. Announces in a ringing voice.

"Charlotte Lourdes!"

A gasp echoes through the crowd as Charlotte Lourdes makes her way from the seventeen-year-olds to step up onto the stage next to her father. The tragedy of this is lost to no one. Everyone knows Charlie. After losing a wife to the Capitol, the Mayor is almost certain to lose his youngest daughter.

"How exciting!" says Tutti as Charlie takes her place on stage. She is trying desperately not to look at her father, who in turn can't take his eyes off her, as if desperate to drink in every moment he can looking at her. I can hear her sisters crying in the crowd. Tutti does the traditional call for volunteers but of course there is no one. Tutti turns to the Mayor. "You must be very proud! Such a beautiful tribute!" The mayor doesn't glance at her but if looks could kill the rest of the district would have scorched Tutti into the ground. Tutti asks for a round of applause, and gets one. It's required, and the Peacekeepers are watching. But it is very short.

"And now, let's find a handsome young man to join our Charlotte here on stage. I must say, the men are what I love most about 7. You all certainly know how to set a Capitol girl aflutter!" She smiles at Eamon, who casually gives her his Panem-famous grin. She goes to the glass ball with the boys' names. My name. My name twenty-five times. Oh gods not me, please. Even if my father beats me near to death. Even if I'm laughed at by Abel and Jonel and their mates every day for the rest of my life. Even if I'm exposed as a tree-elf and chased like a dog from the district. Not me.

The slip is taken. It's unfolded. It's read.

"Merrill Mason!"

It's not me.

Merrill Mason makes his way up the stage. Tears are running down his cheeks. I know of him. He used to help me with the horses. He's one of six desperately poor kids in his family. He's only thirteen.

Again, volunteers are called for. There will be no one. I've never known any kid to be brave enough to volunteer in the district. We're not like 1, or 2, or 4 who train their kids to compete in the Hunger Games. So the voice that's shouting out doesn't make sense. And I don't understand why it's so familiar.

"We volunteer! We volunteer to compete in the Hunger Games!"

Dad?

My father is walking down towards me. He stops by the pen I'm standing in.

"My son, Blight Gavin, volunteers for the Hunger Games!"

He's gone mad.

Tutti is at a loss for words. "This is highly irregular," she stammers.

The mayor is on his feet. "This is outrageous-" He begins.

Eamon steps ups and takes the microphone. "It seems we have a volunteer after all," he says. "Let's hear what Burgen has to say."

My dad grabs my shoulders and hauls me out of the pen. "I speak for my son, as head of my family, and he volunteers for the Games. It is an honor to have him represent our district."

I am numb beyond all measuring. I can't see. Can't breathe. Why is he doing this? How could I have not known about this? Why! Gods, WHY?

I manage to turn and look at my father. I want to him to tell me that this is just one of his drunken jokes. The only thing I can see is his eyes. They have always looked at me with hatred. But now there is murder. I remember Abel's statement that they won't have to worry about my tesserae. I know why Jonel wouldn't look at me. They knew. They knew about this. They are ready to ship me off to the Capitol. To my death.

Adrenaline is coursing through me and it shuts down every part of my mind except the one that speaks in a calm and reasonable voice. If I stay in the district, with my father and my brothers, I will die. If they want me dead so badly, there's no telling what will happen if I refuse to volunteer and humiliate them on national television. No one in the district will defend the son of the Peacekeeper's whore. If I go - I choke on my own breath - if I go to the Capitol, I will die. Except for the one in twenty-four chance that I don't. And if - when I die - it will be of my own failure to say alive in the arena. By my father's hand, certainly. But I have a chance.

The adrenaline speaks for me. I break away from my father's hold and look at Tutti. "I volunteer as tribute," I say.

"Grand!" she squeals. "How grand. What an exciting reaping!"

I step up to the stage and barely notice Merrill Mason as he tumbles down past me and sprints to his family. My throat constricts and I look out to the crowd. I hear muttering. Snickers. Laughing. I can't see my brothers. I won't look at my father.

"Let's give Blight Gavin a round of appreciation for his brave gesture!" The applause is louder than it was for Charlie. All of a sudden, a chant breaks out.

"Tree-Elf! Tree-Elf! Tree-Elf!" I can't keep myself from looking at the source. Abel, Connell, Ram, Tobin, Ercole, and all the others. All my old tormentors. Sneering and cheering. And more and more voices are joining theirs. They're actually excited to see me go to the slaughter. Tears are threatening to pour out and I bite my cheek. I can't say anything to them. But I won't let them see me cry. I won't.

Tutti is beside herself. "How wonderful! A true show of district solidarity!" The chant turns into a chorus of laughter. Tutti doesn't get the joke as the rest of the district does.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look over to see Eamon standing by me. His smile, always so bright, is eerily similar to Abel's. I suddenly realize that this man is going to be my mentor, my outside link during the Games. And I am more afraid than I have been this day.

"Tributes, shake hands!" I turn to Charlie and rest my hand in hers. We look at each other. I see the pity in her eyes, and I know I'm doing the same.

I catch one more glimpse of the dissipating crowd as I'm taken away to the Justice Building. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think for a moment that there's a familiar figure standing where the chanting crowd was, frozen, his eyes only on me.


	4. Chapter 4

Blight:

To someone who has slept all his life on a damp floor in a kitchen, or outside beneath an elm tree, the Justice Building is a place of incomparable beauty. As I said, it's virtually the only stone structure in District 7, and the Capitol spared no expense in its construction. Most likely this was done to browbeat us all into submission as a reminder of the ever present and ever imposing nature of the Capitol's relationship with the districts. Still, I can't help but be awed by the enormous marble pillars, the dignity of the statues standing in their niches, the intricate woven tapestries depicting the history of Panem hanging from the walls. It's probably a symptom of knowing I'll be dead in just over a week, but I find myself desperate to enjoy every last detail of every experience left to me.

I'm escorted by two Peacekeepers into a small, intimate sitting room. It's paneled in some sort of dark wood and there's a fireplace with a chiming clock over the mantle. I sit down in a couch embroidered with some sort of material that I've never even heard of, but till now I couldn't imagine that anything could be so soft. All I want to do is lie down and close my eyes for a moment but of course I can't. The tributes have one hour in which to say good-bye to their friends and family. Already, I can here muted cries and screams from the next room. I imagine that the Lourdes family is releasing all of their repressed grief and guilt and anguish here and now while they can, where there are no cameras poised to capture their tears in close-ups and present them to the eager Capitol audience. The sounds make my stomach twist uncomfortably. I can't sit on the couch without fidgeting, so I get up and begin pacing the room, waiting for my visitors. The line outside my door won't be very long, obviously, but right now I'm starved for any kind of human contact that isn't wearing a white Peacekeeper's uniform. And so I wait.

And wait.

And keep waiting.

By the time the clock reads half past the hour, I have long given up the hope that anyone will be coming to say their good byes. For a while I hoped that perhaps the mayor would have stopped by, for he at least can sympathize with what I am enduring, but I can't blame him for wanting to spend all sixty minutes he has left with his daughter in her presence.

I have taken to staring out the large, arched window next to the fire place, drinking in every last bit I can of my home. I'm glad I can't see anyone outside. I have nothing but a cold, dead loathing for everyone in this miserable place, but I can't stop looking at the trees and thinking that I've slept beneath their comforting limbs for the last time. The cold knot in my stomach reaches a dreadful tightness. I can't help but believe that I'm the only tribute in the history of the Games who had no one to come home to. No one to fight for. And without that, there's no point, is there?

I wish I could spend just a few minutes with the horses.

At fifteen minutes to the hour, I hear the door open softly. My stomach twists again, and a strange welling feeling rises in my throat. I can feel a warmness spreading through my limbs, but as the footsteps tread onto the lush carpets the heat disappears as fast as autumn's last breath before the winter storm. I know those footsteps, as familiar as the faces that I have seen tread through the forests as recently as early this afternoon. It only takes a few moments to compose my face and suppress the cold into a tiny bead of ice, small enough to ignore. I turn from my window to face them.

Abel is there, legs apart, arms folded. Connell is next to him, with the grin he wears when he's caught a rat in the woods and he prepares to slice its tail with his ax. Tobin, Ram, Ercole, all behind, all with the same look of the pack viewing the injured doe. I've spent nine years facing their taunts and their blows and now in the last few minutes I'll ever spend in their presence, I have nothing to say. I won't give them the satisfaction.

Connell leads the attack. "At the bloodbath last year, the boy from 8 was caught by the hair by one of the Careers. The Career slit his throat so deep that his head nearly came off. When that happens to you in a week, I'm betting that it does."

I'm going to throw up. Right now. I look down and think of how dreadfully expensive the carpet must be and how I'm going to buy it when I win.

"Shut up Connell," says Ram. "He's not going to die in the bloodbath. Are you moss-wipe? You're going to run to the woods and hide up in the trees like a good elf. Then they can smoke you out. Set fire to the trees. Catch you and play around a bit. The Capitol loves a good show."

The rug isn't enough. I'm buying the couch and sleeping on it all day.

"And they'll make you squeal." Ercole. "They want sponsors. They'll make the Capitol people happy. You're going to squeal so loudly, as they cut off parts bit by bit. I know what I would start with."

And the clock. I'm buying the clock. I don't know who in the district even owns a clock. I'll be the first.

"Maybe he'll cozy up to some of the cute widdle animals they put in the arena. Like he does with his ponies. And then, in the night, the mutts will rip him apart. Like the girl from 12 at the Quell a couple of years ago. When the hummingbird mutts stabbed her in the throat. Remember how the blood squirted five feet into the air? I'd off yourself first if I were you, elf."

After a couple of minutes I've practically bought the whole goddamn Justice Building.

"You seem awfully quiet, elf. Not scared, are you?"

It's when Abel finally speaks that I break my vow of silence. I meet his eyes, and it's all I can do to not try to rip them out. "You knew. You knew, didn't you?"

A hint of a smile crosses his face. "It was my idea. You don't think that Dad's smart enough to come up with something like that? Well, it was mine and Eamon's actually, but believe me, Dad was all for it when we told him. Hell, he was practically giggling when we told him that we finally had a cure to the Blight of his life. The Hunger Games."

I choke on the words. "And Jonel?"

"He wasn't too keen on it, but then he's only been out of the reaping for a year. He went along with it in the end. He's betting on the mutts, incidentally."

"Why? Please, just tell me why."

Abel's smile grows. "That's not you're problem right now, is it? You've only got one job right now, elf. Die. And try to make it good. We've got a lot of money running on it."

The Peacekeeper comes in to usher them out and a good thing too. The cold knot had sizzled into a white hot ember that was about to burst forth in a spitting torrent of screams and foul names, despite my determination to maintain my dignity this one last time. Abel's crew files out with many final parting shots that I can't even digest anymore. As he leaves, Abel turns one last time.

"Don't take it too hard, elf. Dad always said you had to do your bit to provide for the family. And now you'll be doing it for a long time. Cheers." The door shuts. I collapse into the couch and grab one of the small pillows from the end. Stuffing it into my mouth, I scream all the hateful, vile things I wanted to until I feel my throat begin to tear.

The clock on the wall shows five minutes to the hour. I can't wait five minutes. I want out of this beautiful, wretched room. I am just moving to the door to ask the Peacekeeper if he can just take me to the station now when the door inexplicably opens again. I stop as suddenly as if I had walked into a wall. Jason is walking in, and looking at me in that way he did in the stable, as if he knew. Or wished he could. As if he cared.

He's panting slightly, as if he had just run a distance. He looks at me with that boyish face, so strange set against his well-built body.

"Hey," he says.

I say nothing. I just fold my arms and look down, noticing the deep blue of my shirt and remembering how I had hoped that Jason might see it during the Reaping. Well, he's seeing it now.

"I was going to come with the others," he says. "Got...got held up. I thought I was too late. I didn't want to miss saying-"

"Then say it." My voice is strangely calm. "What's your guess? Bloodbath? Mutts? Careers?"

His brow wrinkles in confusion. "Wha...What?"

"Arrows? Sword? Spear?"

"Blight, I don't know what-"

"Gamemakers? Disaster? Starvation? Exposure?" I'm shouting now, but I don't care. I hate everything about this man, from his untied laces, to the way his hands are tucked awkwardly into his pockets, to the insincere, false look of hurt that's etched across his face.

I hate him. I hate him most of all. And I hate myself because of anyone in the district, I want so badly to believe that he's on my side. But he's not. He said it himself. He was coming with the others. It's only bad luck that I'm addressing him alone. His bad luck.

"Blight, I came to wish you-"

"Good luck? Happy Hunger Games? Oh yeah, I'm having a great Reaping Day, thanks, you piece of-"

"I wanted to say good-"

"Riddance? Yeah, you and Abel and Jonel and all the others. They couldn't wait to see me off."

Understanding creeps across his face. "They...they came to say-"

"Go to hell. Go to hell, Jason."

"Blight, I would never-"

"Remember the wood shed? And the ball in the school field? You never meant them either?"

"I'm sorry! Alright? I'm sorry!" He's shouting by now. I've run out of words for the moment and he takes the opportunity to get in a complete sentence. And it's the last one I expect.

"Do you have a district token?"

"What?" A token? Is he serious? Does he think that I actually want something to remind me of this place? But sure enough he's holding his hand out. And he's looking at me in such a way, with such an expression on his face that I can't help myself from choking back a sob. I won't look at what he's holding, and so he takes my hand and presses something into it.

"I don't know what happened out there, and I don't know why. I never, ever wanted to hurt you, Blight. And I want you to take this. So you know that you have a reason to fight. My dad made it for me, a long time ago."

I look down at the smooth object in my palm. It's a wooden coin, an amulet of sorts. Etched onto it is an extraordinarily beautiful image of a rearing horse. Nearly perfect. My fist closes on it and I can finally meet his eyes.

"Get out."

If Jason had looked hurt before, it's nothing compared to the wave of pain that washes over his face. "Blight..."

"Get out! Get out of here! Go back to your mates and may you rot! You mean nothing to me! When I die, it'll be just to spite you, you, you...bastard!"

Jason stumbles back and finds the door handle. He flings the door open, but before he can turn to leave, I have hurled his precious district token back at him. It bounces off his chest and lands on the carpet. It couldn't have hurt him, but he looks like I tried to spear him through.

He stoops and retrieves it. He stands and leaves without a backwards glance. I collapse upon the couch and for the last minute of my time, I force myself not to cry.

If the hour I spent in the Justice Building was hell, the ride to the train station is its own trial in awkwardness. My face is devoid of any redness from crying, but Charlie is doing that thing that only a few girls can manage, where she cries teardrop by teardrop without messing up her lovely features. The Capitol will eat it up. I don't give a damn what the Capitol thinks of me. In all likeliness, I'll be dead and forgotten by the end of the bloodbath.

Riding in a car is a new experience, and one I would've enjoyed under different circumstances. Now, I hardly take notice until we reach the station. As soon as Charlie and I step out of the car, flashbulbs light the area and reporters with a rainbow's worth of colored hair and makeup press in, asking us both incredibly personal and intrusive questions. Fortunately, Vera and Eamon are there to deflect the reporters and insist that they will all get lovely long interviews about District 7's exciting pair of tributes once they're in the Capitol.

The train is waiting and Charlie and I are about to board when there's a commotion in the back of the crowd. Someone is shouting and yelling, but I can't hear the voice above the excessive noise of the crowd. Probably some friend of Charlie's from school wants to say a last goodbye. Sure enough a Peacekeeper is yelling for someone to grab that kid and more are pushing their way through the host of newspeople.

The nearest reporter, however, grabs the arm of the yelling Peacekeeper. "Don't stop him! This is great footage! Keep rolling!" he shouts to his cameraman. In no time at all, a path has formed and a small figure has dashed up to the train.

To my shock, I realize that it's Merrill Mason. The boy I volunteered for. Unwillingly, bitterly coerced, surely. But I hadn't realized till now that my actions meant that someone else had been granted another chance at life. Or maybe I had realized it but I was too caught up in my own self-pity to admit it. I'm suddenly inexplicably ashamed of myself and I don't know why.

Merrill runs up to me. One hand is clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. The other holds the hand of a little girl who can't be more than three. She must be one of his sisters.

"I...I wanted...to...say...thank you." He stammers. "You...saved me."

I can't look at him. "Don't thank me kid. It wasn't my choice in the end."

He grabs my hand, ignoring the twenty cameras pointing at him. "Thank you, Blight. For my family, thank you."

"Okay, that's enough kid. Out!"

Merrill turns to leave before the Peacekeeper can grab him and toss him out, but his sister breaks out of his hold. She toddles to me as quick as her short legs will carry her. Grabbing my pants legs, she motions me down with a crook of her finger. I crouch down to face this tiny girl at eye-level.

"You." She points to my chest. The cameras are eating this up.

I can't help but smile. "Me." I point to myself.

"Win," she says.

My smile slides off. "Listen sweetie, I'm not going to-"

"No!" she screeches and smacks me on the nose. A chorus of "Aws!" rises from the assembled reporters. The girl ignores it and fixes me with serious eyes. "Win," she says.

"Win," I say.

Merrill snatches her hand again. "C'mon Johanna," he mutters and leads her away. I turn away, the smile still across my face. I climb the steps into the train, but before I enter, I look back one more time. Not at the trees, not at the smoke rising from where the village is, not even towards where I know the stables lie. If this is to be my last glimpse of District 7, then I want it to be of the distantly departing figures of Merrill and Johanna Mason.


	5. Chapter 5

Jason:

_Thwack!_

The shock of the blow travels up my arms, sending painful vibrations all the way down my back. I don't care.

_Thwack!_

Sweat is pouring down my face. In the hour that I've been hacking away at this oak, blisters have formed on my calloused hands and are starting to break open. Blood mingles with the sweat, threatening to send the ax spinning from my hand if I loosen my grip. I don't. I bite my lip and ignore the pain, focusing instead on the massive tree that I've barely been able to dent.

_Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_

With each blow another image from the afternoon flashes through my mind. Burgen stepping forward towards the reaping stage. The look on Blight's face as his father betrayed him. The sneering cheers that my friends shouted as I stood too numb with shock to do anything. Blight on stage next to Charlie, both trying their best to look brave and strong. Blight in the Justice Building, looking as if the world had turned against him and he didn't know why. Blight, regarding me with more hatred and fury than I have ever known in my life.

I don't know what's running down my cheeks now, if it's sweat or tears and I'm beyond caring. The waves of guilt and shame that started in the stables this afternoon - was it only a few hours ago? - and culminated in those terrible few minutes in the Justice Building have not faded. If anything, they've grown stronger as I have more time to reflect, not only on the events of the afternoon but on my own actions. My own guilt. I have never treated Blight with anything more than casual disdain and occasional cruelty. Yes, I told myself that it was all in fun. Yes, the pressure from Connell and Tobin and the rest played a part. But I never, ever could have imagined that they would carry it this far.

I would give anything to speak to Blight one more time, even if means having him lash out at me again. I can't explain what's happening in my head, what's causing my stomach to alternately fill itself with lead and feathers. It's not just physical, although Blight is - in my mind - extraordinarily good-looking. Something about that kid has stuck in me like nothing ever has. I first noticed it in the stable, but I think it was already there. Watching him care for the horses with such love and skill, laughing with the little lads and lasses who helped him out, dropping the odd joke here and there about people in the district that he knew only I would appreciate. Maybe it's the way he treats life as a big joke, or the way he can find fun and laughter in anything. Even the way he talks down to Connell and the others is a form of strength, finding a way to retain his dignity in the face of the most humiliating of circumstances.

My swings with the ax grow faster and more haphazard. Blight's on the train to the Capitol by now. Is he frightened? He must be, but he won't show it. Have the Capitol freaks reveled in his humiliation, in his betrayal? Of course, they live and breathe for entertainment like that. Is he even now talking to his mentor, planning a strategy for facing twenty-three opponents in an unknown arena, some of whom have prepared for these Games their entire lives? They better be, because if Jules or Vera or Eamon return to District 7 without him, I won't need the ax I'm holding. I'll tear them apart with my own hands.

_Thwack!_ Argh!

A particularly voracious blister bursts and I drop the ax. I clutch my palm, which is bleeding heavily. All my feelings of frustration, anger and shame burst out and I kick the oak viciously. Despite my heavy boots, this achieves nothing but the immediate sensation that I have broken my foot.

"Are you going to have another go at it in a minute, or are you done acting like an angry child?"

I turn around and see Mack standing behind me watching. I get the feeling that he's been there for a while. The thought brings a number of bitter words to my lips but I choke them down. Mack is not to be trifled with. He's big, even bigger than Burgen or Abel, and despite being nearly forty he is just as physically strong as he was in his early twenties. Many a drunk in the Tav has enjoyed the experience of being tossed headlong out the door when their antics were beginning to attract unwanted Peacekeeper attention. I proceed with caution.

"I'm...I'm just...trying to get some extra work done. A few more sesterces will help my sister out. What's your problem with it?"

I don't expect him to buy it and his snort of disbelief confirms it. "Well, there's the fact that you're trying to bring down a tree that would normally take half a squad with an ax used for kindling. There's also the fact that you're sweating like one of my pigs and bleeding as well. And then there's the small matter of you never acting like a fool for a day in your life before this, and now you are out alone in the forest. Late at night. With an ax. Any one of which would get you arrested by the Peacekeepers and all three together of which could get you killed!"

"Leave it be!" I snarl. I stoop down and retrieve the ax. "I take care of my own business and I'll thank you to attend to yours!"

I raise my hand to strike the tree again, but in that small space of time Mack is already at my side and holding my wrist in a grip of iron. I struggle for the briefest moment before his other hand has grabbed my collar and physically shoved me against the unyielding oak.

"You idiot boy! I haven't kept an eye out on you for all these years to have you throw away your life with your own stupidity! You think you're the only one in pain tonight? I don't see the mayor out here, do you?"

I don't meet his eyes, inches away from mine though they are. "I don't know what you -"

"Horse dung." He gives my collar a shake. "Wallowing in your own self-pity is not going to help that boy come home!"

"He's not coming home." The words are torn unwillingly from my mouth. "He's not coming home. He's not coming home! He's not coming home!" And the ax has fallen from my nerveless fingers, and I'm shaking and I can't stop it, and suddenly Mack's arms are not restraining me but enfolding me and I'm spilling it all out. The way we all treated Blight. The stables. The Justice Building. Blight's determination to die just to spite me. My dad's coin, hurled back against my chest. My guilt. My shame. My confusion. My strange, undeniable attraction. And because he's Mack, he doesn't say anything, he just listens. And at the end he picks up the ax, puts his hand on my shoulder and forces me to start walking.

"This is what's going to happen," he says. You're going back to your mom's house and cleaning yourself up. You'll be at the Tav in an hour to watch the mandatory viewing of the reapings where the Peacekeepers can see you plain as day. You will be there every night during mandatory viewings like a good district man. You will watch every moment of the Games with a steady eye. And between now and then, and for the duration of the Hunger Games, you will do nothing stupid. Understood?"

I duck my head. "Yessir."

"Good man."

We don't talk for the rest of the trip out of the forest, which is probably for the best because Mack's right. We don't want to attract Peacekeeper attention. At the border of the town, he motions me to duck behind a large elm while he peers down the nearest streets. He gestures that the way is clear and we make our way towards the city center. We part ways before we reach the square, Mack towards his family's home and me towards my mom's place.

The house is empty, my mother is most likely watching the mandatory viewing with one of our neighbors. She's probably knitting me a new sweater and chatting away with the mothers of all my mates. Good. I don't want company for a few minutes and I certainly don't need anxious questions about the state of my hands. I go to the tiny washroom and begin to clean myself off with the lukewarm water drizzling from the tap.

Mack is right. He usually is. I have been acting like an ass and now I have to make up for it. If Blight is going to have to face the Hunger Games, then the least I can do is be there every moment to support him. I've never been more grateful to have Mack by my side. He was my dad's best mate, until my dad died during the Great Fever along with so many others. Ever since then he's watched my back, ensured that I made it through school, dropped by to make sure my mom and sister were eating well. Finding me a four hour shift that I could work after school so that I wouldn't have to take out tesserae. And the greatest thing that he ever did for me, when I was a stupid, confused fifteen year old and blurted out my feelings for him, my childish crush. How he looked at me, one man to another, and told me that I was a combination of son and little brother to him, but that if I ever wanted or needed to talk about things, I should come right to him. And how what I thought had been a shameful secret was not so heavy, not so dreadful, if the one man I respected above all others knew and understood and acted like it didn't make a whit of difference to him.

I've cleaned the sweat off my face and blood off my hands and wrap my palm in bandaging. Tomorrow I'll go to the apothecary and see if they have any lotion that I can afford to avoid infection, but for now I have to make do with warm water and bandages. I change out of my filthy clothes into clean ones and head to the Tav.

As usual, it's a rowdy slice of everything the district has to offer. Lumberjacks, trappers, Peacekeepers, wenches, the odd Capitol man or woman here on business. Because it's summer, the entire front of the building has been pulled back in a series of panels, letting the warm night air flow freely into the building. Chairs and tables have been set up outside, and girls are dashing from the tables to bars, bringing drinks with many a lusty wink. The patrons outside can watch the recaps of the reapings on the massive screens set up in the square along with the hundreds of others who gather because they don't have television in their own homes. Inside the Tav are more screens, not the static-filled, tiny televisions we lucky few may have but large high definition panels made in District 3 for the Capitol. The recaps haven't started yet, instead the screens are showing highlights from last year's Games. I turn away, remembering the particular brutality of the Careers that year and not wanting to think of it while Blight remains so heavily on my mind.

I've just entered the building when a chorus of voices shout out my name. My squad, along with a few others and assorted female companions, are frantically gesturing for me to join them. I make my way over and find a seat between Jonel and Ercole. As soon as I've sit, a busty beauty puts her hand on my shoulder and asks what I would care for. The look on her face indicates that that she's not just talking about drinks. I pointedly ask for a beer and turn away. Abel and Tobin are roaring with laughter over some joke, clearly already intoxicated. My beer comes and Abel flips the girl a couple of sesterces before I can even pull out my coin purse.

"Jason! Buddy! You missed the fun this afternoon!" Tobin slurs.

"Yeah? Why, what happened?" I ask, knowing exactly what he's referring to.

"We went by to give the little elf good wishes. Something to remember us by. Gods, you should have seen his face. I thought he was going to puke all over the carpet!"

This is greeted by a roar of laughter. I take a large drink. Abel gestures towards me.

"So you haven't placed your bet yet, Jason. Why not?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I didn't know about the plan apparently. You all seem to have been in on the joke, but I was just as surprised as Blight was when he was 'volunteered.'"

"Did you see his face! Did you see his face! Aw, it was great! I have been waiting for that all year and it was just like I hoped! Who's got a face like a wild dog now, elf?" Connell is practically giggling with glee. Something he says registers numbly in me.

"You've been planning this all year, huh?" I ask Abel. I remember what Mack said about not doing anything stupid and plaster a smile on my face, as if it's all a big joke and I'm eager to know the details. I'm not sure it's convincing so I down half my pint to make up for it. Abel gestures for a barmaid to bring me another beer before answering me.

"Quite some time now. I'm sorry we didn't tell you but we weren't sure how'd you react, mate. I mean, we all knew that you hate the little moss-wipe as much as we do but after what happened two years ago during the Quarter Quell, you know, we thought you might have mixed feelings."

My second pint comes and I drain it. "Yeah, I mean, it's not like watching your cousin die onscreen affects you or anything."

Jonel leans over to me. "This is different mate," he says in his quiet voice. "Your cousin Cameron was a good bloke. Everyone was hoping he'd make it back. It was rough seeing him go, especially after the Fever and everything. But Blight is different. You don't realize what a good thing this is for the district. I mean, someone HAS to go to the Games, so the best thing is to make sure that it's someone no one cares about returning."

I have never, ever wanted to punch someone as much as I want to smack my best mate right now. Blight is his brother. What could he ever have done to earn such a callous disregard for his life?

"Filthy whore's brat," Abel mutters.

"She was your mother too," I say. Damn beer.

Abel's retort is cut off by a ruckus at the bar. Burgen is standing on the bartop, and if Abel is drunk, it's nothing compared to what this man is. Beer stains run down his shirt and he can barely stand. He's tittering like a little girl and the bartender is laughing. Cheers erupt from the crowd. A Peacekeeper climbs the bar, but he's laughing as well and helps keep Burgen upright. On his other side, Mack is doing the same. Burgen says something to Mack, who roars with laughter. You'd never guess he was the same man who found me in the forest. Burgen motions for quiet and raises his glass.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and...and...friends! KeepPeacers and...uh...y'all folks! Let's toast my ex-wife, the Peacekeeper's slut! Let's raise a glass to her little elf son, gone off to the Games! Here's to my TRUE sons, Abel and Jonel! And here's to the little whelp that's going to make us all filthy rich!

"Here here!" Glasses raise around the Tav. I do the same and drink my third beer. In my mind, I'm wishing for Blight's swift and safe return. My head is beginning to spin and I don't notice for a moment that Mack has pulled up a chair next to me. He hands me another beer.

"The reapings are starting. Focus, mate."

I try to watch the recaps of the reapings but I can't seem to concentrate. I'm on my fifth, sixth, seventh beer? How many have I had? Dammit! Oh look, there's Blight! Blight is on TV! I like his shirt. It was a very pretty blue. Blight is pretty too. No that's silly, boys aren't pretty, he's handsome! I hope he comes to visit me. What is Mack saying to me now? Yeah, I was going to give him a district token, but he didn't want it. I thought he would, since it had a horse on it. You want to see it, Mack? Of course you can see it! Isn't it nice? Dad made it for me, before he died. Before Cameron died. Before Blight died. Well...Blight hasn't...Blight...

I wake up in my own bed back home. I have a headache that could kill a hundred wild dogs. Ugh. What was I thinking? And I have to work today. Mack must have gotten me back home from the Tav last night. I can't even remember anything past the first reapings. Damn...

It isn't until I've washed up and eaten a bit of bread and cheese to try to alleviate my headache that I realize that I've lost something. My dad's coin, the token that I tried to give to Blight is gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Blight:

By all rights I should be sobbing right now. Maybe raging around, throwing random objects, letting them smash to bits against the paneled walls of my private compartment in the Capitol train. Or perhaps I should be sitting here numbly, letting waves of shock roll over me until all rational thoughts and functions are inhibited. I could be doing any of these things. To be honest, I think that after everything that's happened today, I deserve to behave however I damn well please. However at the moment I am too busy jumping on my bed to give it much thought.

I've spent my life sleeping on the stones in front of the kitchen hearth or up a tree in the forest. Once in a while I'd sneak into the stables and steal a kip curled up in the hay next to the cats and horses. I'd rarely do this because Dad could always smell the horse on me and would give me a hiding for sneaking out, but it was worth the risk just to sleep on something as soft as the stable hay. But this. I never imagined that something could be so luxuriously, impossibly comfortable. The mattress yields under my bare feet, then springs up to launch me in the air The pillows and comforter wrap me in a warm embrace when I fall. I can't imagine that the clouds themselves are any better crafted.

So yes, I have indulged in a moment of childish fun. Unfortunately it's not to last.

"Blight! Darling, is everything alright in there? There's such a ruckus!"

Gods damn you, Tutti Marble.

I immediately cease my bounding and collapse face down into the mattress. Keeping my head buried beneath the pillows in case she enters, I wait until I hear her announce that it's time for dinner. I don't reply, and soon I hear her footsteps as she departs for the dining car. I sit up and stretch for a moment, then examine myself in the mirror. I attempt to run my fingers through my dark hair and wash my face in the small sink provided. Better. The last thing I want is to appear at dinner looking like I've thrown a fit. I realize that I'm still in the wrinkled blue shirt and tan pants that I wore for the reaping. I search the compartment and come across a closet filled with clothes the likes of which I have never seen. I select deep brown trousers and a dark green shirt. The choice is conscious: I want to remind myself of the solitude of the forest where I used to wander, the few times in my life that I have been truly happy. I throw a vest on over the shirt and satisfy myself that I am presentable.

I don't know why I'm suddenly so fussy over my appearance. Perhaps it's because I'm overcome with a desire to not look like the old Blight, the Blight who had to take the abuse of his father and brothers and their friends for years. I have left that Blight far behind in 7, along with the faces that I grew up with. The new Blight is still going into the Hunger Games, and he is terrified beyond belief. No doubt he will spend several nights awake, frozen in fear, dread welling up in his stomach like a malignant tumor. But if Blight is going to go into the Capitol's sick, perverted little show, he's going to go in fighting. And his first target will be Tutti's hair.

Sure enough, when I arrive in the dining car, they're all there waiting for me. Jules is gnawing away at what looks to be an enormous leg of turkey. Vera is delicately sipping her soup, her snow white skin looking even more dramatic against the vibrant violet of her cosmetically altered eyes. Eamon lounges in his chair sipping a dark plum liquid from a crystal glass and talking avidly to Tutti, who is hanging onto his every word. Well, more than that, she's hanging onto him, her whole body leaning out of her own seat so far that she's practically draped over him. He doesn't seem to mind at all, especially since her position allows him an easy look at the ample cleavage that threatens to burst over her oh-so-casually unbuttoned pea-green suit. Charlie is sitting nearest to me, buttering a roll, and it is she who notices me first and gives a little wave. Tutti sees this and looks my way. She gives a simpering sound of displeasure.

"Blight, for shame! You're very, very tardy." Eamon gives a chuckle and she turns her fawning eyes back towards him. I bow my head in consternation.

"I may be late Tutti, but you sadly seem to be the victim of an unfortunate cosmetic procedure gone horribly awry, resulting in the impression that someone has misplaced a tracker jacker nest on a human sized growth of asparagus. The culprit then obviously forgot that even if you tattoo flowers onto a boar, it's still a boar. So unless you have a change of suit, a wig that somewhat remotely resembles human hair and not a small natural habitat, and a whole table of makeup hidden somewhere beneath those bazumkas - which by their unnatural size may be entirely likely - it's probable that my tardiness will be remedied far before your face."

A number of seconds of ringing silence greet my frank assessment, during which I take the opportunity to seat myself and begin buttering a roll of my own. Charlie's hands are still clamped over her mouth and Tutti's gasping silently like a fish out of the pond when old Jules finally breaks the moment with a cackle of glee.

"HA! Bazumkas! I think he means your breasts, Tutti!"

"I know very well what he means, thank you very much!" Tutti has found her voice again and it seems to have climbed several octaves in its absence. She fixes me with what I'm sure she thinks is a withering glare but rather gives the impression that someone slipped horse piss into her tea. "Really, you simple child, I am your escort and you-"

"Am your tribute," I interrupt softly. "The male tribute from district 7. And if the Capitol wants me, then they get me, mouth and all. What can you possibly do after all? Kill me?"

That shuts Tutti up pretty quickly. Eamon, however, regards me with his casual grin.

"Don't forget, your escort and your mentor are present to drum up some sponsors for you. It's in your best interest to maintain a civil and courteous relationship with us at the very least."

"Maybe that's true," I say through a mouth full of bread and butter. "For tributes who at least are going into the arena with half a chance in hell, but we all know-"

"Now you really are being silly, Blight." Vera was the only one who didn't react to the exchange between myself and Tutti and continues to sip her soup as she talks. Her voice strangely resembles a cat's mewling. "You all have an equal chance in the Games. Jules and Eamon and I never let the odds get to us, and neither should you. So before this gets out of hand, I suggest we focus on this excellent, excellent dinner so that we can get down to discussing strategy."

I have a few responses to this that I consider entirely accurate and would probably make Tutti's voice break a couple of windows, but as I dig into my own soup I find that more and more I can only think about the incredible sensations in my mouth. The soup is like nothing I've tasted before, red and spicy and bursting with flavor. The sausage - how can someone who eats meat twice a year at most describe what it's like to have a year's wages worth of the best sausage just laid out in front of him? Soon I'm grabbing slices of pork, a leg of turkey, and Jules is laughing and telling me to 'slow down, boyo, or you'll burst!' Charlie bites into a strange fruit I've never seen before and moans in delight. The others tell her that it's called a peach, grown in District 11. She tosses one to me and, despite the fuzzy skin that gives the sensation that I'm biting into a small mouse, the fruit itself is beyond description. The staff begins a new game, bringing out samples of all the delights that the train's kitchens can whip up and setting them before us. The others roar with laughter at each new face we make, and despite my fear, agitation, and contempt for most of my dinner mates, I have to admit that a small part of me is thinking that it was worth being volunteered just for this experience.

But, like my private game of jump-on-the-bed, it all comes to a close too soon. The platters of food are taken away, we are all served steaming mugs of what Vera calls "coffee," and the four adults are suddenly regarding us with steely, appraising looks. I glance at Charlie and see that she looks as intimidated as I feel. I lean back, fold my arms, and try to meet the mentors' looks.

Vera starts off. "There are many manners of survival in the arena, and none of them are superior to the others. Many rely on brute strength and the superiority of their weapons skills. Legends like Brutus and Cora are justly renowned for the ferocity with which they climbed to victory, but this is not the only way. Other Victors, like Beetee Wimbleton of District 3 and even Haymitch Abernathy of 12 relied on their wits and skills to outlast and outwit their opponents."

"Some rely on stealth and survival," continues Eamon. "Seeder Crue did this more than two decades ago. She never saw another opponent in the arena and they never saw her. Eventually, the Careers ran out of supplies and fought over the scraps, effectively eliminating themselves. All Seeder had to do was wait for the last one to succumb to his injuries and the crown was hers."

"Find your strengths and develop them," says Jules. "No tribute is without strengths. Nor are any without weakness. That goes for you and your opponents."

"The first thing we have to do is determine your individual mentors." Vera takes Charlie's hand in her own. "Charlie dear, your father found me after he left the Justice Building today and asked me to look after you. If you'll have me, I'd like to become your mentor for these Games."

A tear runs down Charlie's lovely cheek. "Of course, Vera. I would be honored."

"Which just leaves you, Blight!" bursts in Tutti, who looks desperate to contribute to this important discussion. "You get to choose between two amazing Victors, Jules and Eamon! Keep in mind that whichever you choose is your outside source to all the sponsors'-"

"I pick Jules," I say, cutting across Tutti's speech. "I'll have Jules if he's game." But Jules is already shaking his head.

"I'm getting too old for these old Games and ruckus, boyo. Old man Jules has earned his vacation in the Capitol without any added goll-dang-rumbled aggravation. Young Mr. Eamon will do well by you, you mark my words, lad." He winks at me. "But no offense meant of course. I sure as 'ell like you, kid!"

"Guess it's you and me then, Blight." Eamon's voice is soft, the look in his eyes unreadable.

"I guess so," I say. The clock on the carriage wall chimes the hour. Tutti leaps up and squeals.

"The reapings are starting! The reapings are starting! Up, up, up everyone! Let's go catch the recaps! This is so dreadfully exciting!" She hurls herself out of her chair and takes Eamon by the hand, leading him out. I follow my new mentor, making sure to swing my hips in the exact method that Tutti has just demonstrated during her exit. I might be mistaken, but I'm sure I hear a couple muffled snorts of laughter behind me, and as I turn to hold the door open for the others it almost seems as though Vera is compressing a smile from her face.

The next carriage in the train contains a lounge complete with a massive screen on the far wall opposite the couch and assorted plush chairs. Charlie and I take the seats of honor on the couch directly in front of the screen and the others settle themselves around us. Tutti turns the power on and the screen comes to life, instantly showing the reapings of District 1 in a crystal clear picture.

The girl has already been reaped, and by the look of glee on her face it's obvious that she was a volunteer. This is common in Districts 1, 2 and 4, where they train the most promising kids to compete in the Hunger Games for glory, fame and wealth. Sure enough, when the thirteen year old boy from 1 is reaped, he doesn't even have a worried look on his face. A seventeen year old instantly volunteers. He doesn't even have any competition; most likely everyone knew that he would be this year's male tribute. His expression is pure confidence as he mounts the stage. The commentators are cooing over his handsome features and sun-bleached hair. He and the girl will definitely be contenders.

District 2 is much the same, even more so as two girls get into a brawl over who will get to volunteer. The winner climbs up to the stage, adjusts her torn top, and shoots a rude gesture towards the girl she backhanded on her way up the steps. I like this one.

District 3 passes without much notice, but the escort from District 4 doesn't even get to stick his hand into the reaping ball before two grinning kids are on the stage next to him. The crowds are cheering their names and the escort shrugs, asks if there are any objections, and announces the two winners of the reapings. Both of them are pumping their fists as if they had already been named Victors. I really don't understand the Career districts.

Contrast that to 5, where the mother of the Reaped girl is torn away by Peacekeepers and beaten across the face. District 6 is the same, more tears and screams of anguish and two frightened kids on the stage next to their smiling escort.

And then we get to 7. The commentators are all agog over Charlie, talking about her stunning looks, her brave face, how noble and determined she looks. And all too soon, I am watching Merrill Mason climb the stage, watching my father shout out. Seeing the insane look of fear in my eyes. Hearing myself volunteer against my will. Watching myself climb the stage. The commentators are thrown by the turn of events, but remark that rules are rules and that my volunteering was technically within the guidelines. If only they knew. Like Tutti, they are excited by the loud chants of "Tree-Elf!" and state that it's lovely to have a district firmly in support of their tribute. To my surprise, they show the clip of myself speaking to little Johanna. As I smile at her, the female commentator sighs.

"Look at that smile! Worth a million sesterces. Here's a handsome, strong and mysterious tribute with a golden heart!" I pretend to vomit over the side of the couch.

By the time we get to District 8, we've all picked up on something that the commentators begin to remark upon themselves. The reapings always yield a few good-looking kids, but this year almost everyone is attractive to some degree. Sure enough, the girl from 8 is a dark-haired beauty with exotic, almond shaped eyes. The bloke from 9 hides his nerves behind a dashing smile and the girl tosses her masses of copper hair behind her shoulder as she steps up the stage. 10 is a bit of a jolt, since the thirteen year old girl has the face of an angel but sobs wrack her body. The boy from 10 is big, one of the biggest this year. He doesn't smile or show any reaction other than sticking his hands in his pockets and giving a small shrug.

"I bet I know why," says Vera quietly as the reapings from 11 come on. "Lyme."

Lyme was last year's Victor, a Career from 2. She was extremely competent with her chosen weapons of spear and net, but she was also a dumpy girl with a face like one of District 7's strays. Watching her slouch like a sack of potatoes on the Victor's Throne, flashing rude signs at the camera, was one of the highlights of my year. I wonder if the Capitol pulled strings to make sure that a few more attractive kids came out of the reapings this year to avoid a repeat. I wouldn't put it past them. Or it could be that after Lyme, we all look like damn gods and goddesses.

As soon as the Reapings from 12 are finished, and the last two terrified kids have stepped up, Tutti switches off the television and claps at Charlie and me.

"Off to bed you two! Tomorrow is going to be just fantastic and we want you rested up and looking your best like the two shining stars you are!" I notice that her smile is rather fixed at this and she's only looking at Charlie. Eamon raises a hand.

"Not quite yet, Tutti," He says. "Bed soon. Strategy first."

"Ooooh! I love this part! Tell me everything you're planning, handsome!" Tutti sets herself down in Eamon's lap. He shoots a look of desperation at Jules, who rouses himself.

"C'mon girl, let's go see if we can rustle up any more of that excellent booze so we adults can have a proper party after!" Tutti is all for this idea, and in a moment the door has shut behind them, leaving Charlie and me alone with our mentors.

"The first thing to decide is whether to coach you individually or together," says Vera. "As you know, each has its advantages. So choose now."

Charlie and I regard each other.

"I don't have anything to hide from you, Blight," she says. "I've heard all about you, I'm sure you can't surprise me."

"I think it would be best," I say, "To be coached separately." For a moment Charlie looks hurt but I lean forward and whisper in her ear, "It's best not to get attached if we can help it."

The realization that at least one of us will not be coming back on this train floods her eyes, and she nods in understanding. She and Vera stand and exit out through the carriage, towards Charlie's quarters, leaving me alone with Eamon.

I really don't care whether or not we are coached separately or together. This is the moment I have been waiting for. This is the time for answers. I look at Eamon, who is sitting in his chair, legs crossed, hands folded, his hair falling casually over his handsome face.

"I don't suppose there's really any point pretending, is there?" he asks.

"No, I don't suppose there is."

"Good then. I expect I know your part in this then?"

"To die. Preferably in a dramatic manner. Abel told me."

Eamon nods. "It's your choice. To let yourself die in the bloodbath or to fight for a few more days of life. Either way, it makes no difference to us."

"I won't be getting any aid from you either way."

"No Blight. You will not."

I study the pattern of the woven threads on the couch. "And is anyone going to tell me why?"

There is a long pause before he answers, "Rest assured that it is nothing personal."

"Tell that to my father and brothers."

"Oh, for them it certainly is. You're the living reminder of the woman who shamed our whole district because she couldn't keep her legs closed for any passing Peacekeeper. But for me, well, let's just say that I'm in a spot of trouble, Blight. It's hard being a Victor, you know. We all have methods of coping with the arena. And mine has been to live large and free. Unfortunately, I have amassed quite a debt while indulging in the finer things in life. Similarly, your father and brother Abel have debts due to their drinking and gambling habits. So we found a solution. We, and many others in the district, have amassed all our funds over the course of a year, and now with you in the Games we will be taking out bets. On the method of your death, and how long you survive. I will be placing these bets in the Capitol. Just winning one will be extremely lucrative, and my guess is that we will actually win several. Far more than enough to pay our debts and live comfortably for a good long time. Nothing personal of course."

The shock of this revelation washes over me, numbing me to my very bones. But all I can say is, "And if I win?"

He lets out a bark of laughter. "You won't win Blight. I will be making sure of that. No one has ever, ever won without sponsors before."

I get up to leave. I can't stand to be in the room with this monster anymore. At this moment, I hate him more than even my father and brothers. Their animosity was built up over years. But to this man, I am nothing more than the amount of sesterces the end of my life will bring him.

As I turn away, he says "It doesn't have to be difficult, Blight. I can't give you life, but I can send you something to give you an easy death. Quick and easy."

"Forget it," I snarl back at him. "I don't need anything from a mutt-spawn, Capitol-loving, whoring old son of a bitch."

He stands and points at me. "Watch how you talk to me, little elf. I'm not to be pushed. I am a Victor!"

"So am I," I say. And without another word I leave the carriage, closing the door behind me.


	7. Chapter 7

Blight:

Staring out my window, I get a stunning view of the Capitol laid out before me. The massive towers glint in the morning sun, as brightly as the snow on the mountains that surround us. I've never seen mountains before, and to see the city with buildings several times taller than the trees at home nestled in the natural valley is enough to take my breath away. Gold and silver domes are cradled between the towers. The streets are wide and crowded with the masses of people who seemingly have nothing better to do than shop and gossip and gawk at the passing tributes as they did when Charlie and I were driven to the Remake Center. It's a truly spectacular sight. Not to mention intimidating. Even more so because I am naked.

We arrived at the Capitol Central Train Station early this morning and were immediately whisked away in a fancy black car. After telling us that they would see us that evening, our mentors reminded us not to object to anything our stylists were about to make us do. They then left us in the questionable hands of Tutti Marble and went to attend business elsewhere. Vera is obviously off to try to drum up sponsors for Charlie, but since Eamon has no such intentions, I can't think what else could occupy his time. Somehow I suspect it involves women and alcohol.

I could tell Charlie had been crying again, but I didn't want to say anything with Tutti there. No doubt it would just lead to another row. Besides, what good is comfort anyway? In less than a week, it's likely that one or both of us will be dead. I find myself hoping for her sake that Charlie dies in the initial bloodbath. Quick and relatively painless for both her and her family.

These dark thoughts continue as we find ourselves inside the Remake Center, where our personal stylists will dress us up in some sort of ridiculous costume for the Opening Ceremonies tonight. Charlie and I are separated at the seventh floor and I am left in an open room with stark white walls and plush blue carpet. I have barely sat down on one of the soft leather chairs provided when a burst of noise and color and movement send me flying to my feet.

I'm pretty sure that I compared Tutti to a vegetable sprout and a swine in one breath. But compared to these three, she looks almost normal. Almost. Except for the bazumkas, which are still large enough to serve drinks on.

The first figure sees me and throws her hands out in greeting. "There you ah' baby! Honey we ah' make you so FINE!"

She resembles some sort of gilded golden statue, right down to the altered irises of her eyes. She's followed by two identical young men with jolly, good natured faces. One is completely done up in red and purple, the other in blue and purple. They all rush up to me, kiss my cheeks, pinch my ears, shake my hands and tell my how happy, no, how honored they are to be working with me. It takes a few moments for me to figure out that these three are my prep team, and a few moments longer to realize that they are all completely mad.

Poppaea, the girl, gives me a running commentary on the Games this year, the styles, the parties and all the excitement among the Capitol people as she strips my clothes off before I can offer any objection. The twins, Romulus and Remus, seem to exist to agree with everything that Poppaea says and also to start rubbing oils in incredibly intrusive places. It's not until Remus begins applying strips of wax to my chest that I finally find my voice.

"Hey! Hey! Blueberry! What in the gods' names are those for?"

Remus gives me a patronizing look. "Well, no one is going to want to sponsor you with all that unsightly hair! It's entirely off putting!"

My chest hair just started growing in a couple of years ago. I still don't have very much, but each strand is carefully counted and maintained, a precious jewel and testament to my manliness. And now they want to-"

RIP! GAH!

Poppaea taps my cheek - hard. "Doncha worry baby! We ah' make you so FINE!"

I don't feel fine. I feel degraded. These Capitol freaks have stripped me of my hair and my dignity.

Romulus must notice the look on my face because he puts a hand on my shoulder. "You have to trust us," he says. "We've been doing this for a while, and you can't be expected to know the current mood of the Capitol when it comes to fashion and appearance. It may seem ridiculous but it's going to help you."

"Honey, when we all done with you, you gonna be so-"

"Fine, yes I get it." I grit my teeth. "Just get on with it."

And so they do, for the entire morning and into the afternoon. Not only my chest, but my arms, armpits and the back of my neck is stripped painfully of hair. My beard is only the barest layer of stubble but Remus shaves that off too, using an incredibly sharp razor in his surprisingly gentle hands. Poppaea works on my nails on hands and feet, blathering away about how this or that person tried to copy her style when gold was particularly her look this season. About noon my stomach starts rumbling and Romulus disappears and returns with a tray filled with small colorful delicacies I have never seen before. Since I can't feed myself while the other two are rubbing more oils into my skin, he feeds one to me once in a while when his hands are free. They are strange and tart and utterly foreign. Romulus calls them sushi.

"I hear your costume this year is going to be just spectacular," says Remus. "Redwood! Aren't you excited!"

For the past twenty years, an irritable looking woman with feathers tattooed onto her skin has been the stylist for District 7, and every year the tributes are dressed up as some sort of tree. This has mixed results. They year that they resembled cherry trees with delicate blossoms trailing in their wakes was truly stunning. The year that the tributes wore togas of pine needles that made them look like half-dressed savages...not so much.

I'm suddenly irritated by the fact that these three are treating me like their own personal dress-up doll. I decide to break the mood a little. "So," I ask in a casual tone. "When was the last time you three worked on a tribute who didn't end up gutted through the heart?"

The temperature in the room drops considerably, or so it seems. My prep team looks aghast. Are they ashamed of the fact that they're primping kids up for slaughter?

"We...we never have had a winning tribute," confesses Remus. "And we're running out of time. Prep teams who don't have a winner after a certain amount of years get regulated to less desirable positions."

"So honey you ah' make sure you win this baby doll, okay!"

Yes Poppaea, I will put forth an effort to survive in an arena filled with twenty-three kids trying to kill me solely for your benefit.

Romulus checks the clock on the wall. "Almost three! Messalina should be here any minute now!"

As if on cue, the door bursts open and a large figure bustles through.

"Messa! About time! We thought you had...that you...you..." Romulus's voice trails off into nothingness. He's staring at the new arrival with something thing bordering fear and reverence. I feel Poppaea and Remus suddenly step away from me, and their heads are bowed, their chatter replaced by silence. I have no idea what brought this sudden mood and they won't meet my eyes, so I focus on the large woman who is now gliding across the rooms towards us.

She is just as bizarrely colored as my prep team, with flowing silver robes and hair and jeweled birds inlaid across her collar bone. She holds an overlarge silver fan that she twitches in her direction occasionally. But she carries herself different, like a person who is used to being noticed and obeyed by all merely by her presence. It's sure shut up my prep team, which after only knowing them for a few hours still says a lot. She stops before me and takes in every inch of my oiled, exposed body with her regal gaze. I have the sudden desire to frolic merrily into the arena rather than stand here facing this unknown woman's judgment.

"Madame Lucia!" Romulus finds his voice at last. "This is an honor, I mean, a real privilege, but what, what are you-"

"Madame Lucia has come to prepare her tribute!" the woman declares. "Madame Lucia sincerely hopes that her prep team has done an adequate job, although judging by what they're wearing themselves, she finds that to be dreadfully unlikely."

"Your...your tribute?" Romulus chokes out. "But Madame Lucia, you...you never..."

I recognize this woman now. Lucia, one of the oldest and most established stylists of the Games. She has been working with tributes for years and her subjects never fail to impress by the Capitol's twisted standards. Her list of victorious tributes is impressive. Brutus. Cora. Lyme. Nolan. Jade. As a result, she only ever works for one of the Career districts. Ever. What she is doing standing in front of me as I lose my last shreds of dignity is beyond me.

"Madame Lucia has decided that she will be styling the male tribute from District 7 this year. And as Madame Lucia gets what she desires, Messalina has been reassigned to District 10, or 3, or somesuch backwater. Now shoo! All three of you! Madame clearly has her work cut out for her thanks to your incompetence!"

My prep team ducks their heads and scamper. I catch Romulus giving me one pitying look before he too is gone. I look back to find Madame Lucia uncomfortably close. I want to take a step back but I get the feeling that this will just irritate her and that I do not want to be on this woman's ugly side.

"Too short," she says. "But well built. Nothing like those District 2 monstrosities of course but reasonably well put together. Look up for me, child. Classical features. Sharp cheeks and chin. Almost carved. Ridiculous haircut. Lovely eyes. Awful eyebrows. Romulus will be talked to about that. Smile for Madame Lucia, child."

I try to give her a grin that I'm sure is more like a grimace. She sighs. "Your face softens when you smile. Make sure you never let it drop on the chariot. You'll attract sponsors. You'll do, Lucia thinks. Yes, you'll do nicely."

"Does mean I'm not going to be a tree?" I ask.

She snaps her fan shut. "Quiet, child! Tributes should not speak when they are being worked upon. Not until their interviews at least."

Well, that's one notion I'm going to have to dissuade her of quickly. "You've been talking with Tutti, haven't you?"

"Tutti Marble? That little tramp?" I suppress a grin as she raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Madame Lucia went to Styling University with her mother. Woman never could keep her mouth shut around her betters."

"Tutti learned from the best then."

"I see," she says. A subtle shift occurs, and it seems like my stylist no longer views me with dispassion. "Well, Mr. Gavin, to answer your question, no, you will not be dressed as a tree this year. Madame Lucia was inspired when she saw the clip of your reaping. Many fantastic and novel designs instantly formed in her brilliant mind and she knew that she simply had to be your stylist this year. The stylist for your district partner was persuaded to change his concept to match Madame Lucia's. I trust you realize how fitting your costume is going to be, my child?"

"I'm sorry," I say, "But Blight Gavin really has no idea what Madame Lucia is talking about."

Madame Lucia claps her hands twice and a pale man in white hurries in, carrying several large packages wrapped in soft cloth. Madame Lucia reaches for the smallest one and unfolds it.

"You, Mr. Gavin, will be the living incarnation of those chants of support you received at the Reaping. She holds up two fleshy, pointed ears. "You are going to become a tree-elf."

I hate this place.

"""""""""

In what seems to be no time at all, I'm dressed in my costume for the Opening Ceremonies. The boots are soft black leather that come up past my ankles. The tight grey pants are tucked into the boots and belted with a long cord. I'm shirtless, and Lucia has fitted the prosthetic ears over my own and fixed them on with some sort of adhesive. At least I can still hear. I view the ensemble in the mirror. It's not horrible. Definitely better than being dressed up like a fir tree. But I have to admit, it's rather plain for the Opening Ceremonies, and for a woman of Madame Lucia's reputation it seems downright anti-climactic.

I've barely gotten a good look at myself, however, when Lucia claps her hands. Romulus, Remus and Poppaea hurry in, all carrying pots and brushes. They make little bows and curtsies when they reach us. I want to tell them that they really don't need to insist on such formalities for little old me, but Lucia speaks first.

"Well! You've seen the designs! To work, you three!"

My prep team immediately begins painting my body with some sort of foul substance that smells of chemicals. I have to remain perfectly still, and can't tell what on earth they are doing to my chest, my back, even my neck and face. After an hour or so of this I'm tired and sore and at the end of my patience when all three step back and let Lucia inspect their work, which she does for a long time.

"Well enough," she announces and I can hear the others sigh with relief. "Take a look at yourself, Mr. Gavin."

I face the mirror and see that the prep team has painted my upper body with a series of arcane symbols that twist and weave around my chest and arms, up my neck, curving around my cheeks and over my eyes. They are the same dull shade of grey that my trousers are.

"The lights, please, Romulus," says Lucia.

The room goes dark, but the symbols do not. Instead, they begin to glow and shimmer with light. First it's blue, then green, then purples, and the weaving mixes of colors seem to imitate the dancing sunlight on a forest floor as the stunning symbols blaze against my skin. I realize that the fabric of my pants is doing the same, as bright leaves and branches appear and fade, appear and fade. As I stare at myself in the mirror, Remus and Romulus fix heavy silver armbands to my upper arms and wrists, and Poppaea places a delicate crown of silver leaves upon my head. I look like some sort of forest god, filled with laughter and power and rage. I realize now why Madame Lucia is so renowned even in the districts.

"What...what is it?" I ask.

"The paint contains millions of microscopic light-reflecting beads, invented in District 3" says Lucia. "When it's woven into cloth it's called 'shimmersilk.' Only politicians and the very wealthy can afford to wear it. As well as promising tributes."

I don't know why but a strange feeling wells in me. That Madame Lucia wouldn't go through all this trouble and effort if she didn't believe that I had a chance. She has made me look more than handsome. I look exceptional. I realize suddenly that Jason will be watching the Ceremonies tonight, and I wonder what he'll think. The thought of Jason is suddenly immensely painful and Poppaea mercifully takes my mind off him when she slaps me on the behind.

"You ah' have sponsors lining up! You be showing off those assets, baby boy!"

Madame Lucia turns to the prep team member who would dare touch her tribute and her costume for any other reason than officially sanctioned prep and Poppaea dashes from the room.

""""""""""

Lucia escorts me down to the lowest level of the Remake Center where the chariots are waiting for us. I make my way to the District 7 chariot, trying to ignore the glances of the other tributes who are huddled nervously at their stations. To my relief, Charlie is waiting for me by the horses. She looks incredible. Her shimmering dress is of the same design as my pants and the same glowing symbols decorate her bare arms and face. She wears pointed ears and gold jewelry in contrast to my silver. In addition, large gossamer wings like those of a dragonfly are fixed to her back, giving her the appearance of a beautiful wood sprite.

"Hey you," she says as I approach. "You look mighty handsome tonight."

I take her hand and kiss it gallantly. "Thank my stylist. Or rather, thank Connell and Abel. They gave her the idea."

She looks politely confused, and over her shoulder I see another tribute eying her with distaste. I think it's the girl from 1, judging by her blonde hair and the sapphires gleaming from her long dress. The District 1 girls are always beautiful, the Careers are selected for looks as well as weapons skills. But where her beauty is crafted and artificial, Charlie's is natural and genuine. I hope Vera has a good strategy for my district partner because she's already making enemies.

A soft whinny distracts me and I turn to the nearest of the four horses leading our chariot. "Oh, you beauty," I whisper as I glide my hand over his back. "You pretty thing." The stallion nuzzles me and I blow into his nostrils so he gets my scent. Suddenly a trumpet sounds and the massive doors open.

"Blight, c'mon!" Charlie calls. "It's starting!" I reluctantly tear myself away from the horses and leap over the side of the chariot, landing beside her. She looks startled, and then laughs as the horses move of their own accord without any command, leading us out into the city.

We are greeted by screaming crowds on all sides. Remembering what Lucia said, I fix a smile on my face and wave greetings to the adoring throng. Shouts and cries come our way, our names are shouted and flowers litter the street before us. Looking at the massive screens lining the avenue, I can see that Charlie and I are an enormous hit with our glowing skin and clothes. The symbols are even more dramatic in the open night of the parade. I see flashes of some of the other tributes: gems from 1, merman and mermaid from 4, bright cloth from the textile district 8, an abundance of fruit and berries for 11. Some are well done, other's less so, but Charlie and I are the talk of the evening, easily gaining the loudest cheers and most screen time. The only way Lucia could have gotten us more attention would have been if she had set us on fire. Which of course would be ridiculous.

I see a large group of screaming girls around my age all pressing forward, hands outreached to me. I give them a wave and a wink and they collapse in spasms of delight. The boys with them look at me with annoyance, and one of them reaches into his coat. I have hardly even registered what he is doing before he has tossed a firecracker in front of our chariot that explodes with a large bang.

The crowd gasps as the horses shriek and rear. The one nearest to me breaks from the harness and starts cantering madly around. The parade stops, the crowd is shouting, and a Peacekeeper runs into the avenue, gun armed and aiming. I don't know what goes through my head, only that with so many of us bound to die, I couldn't watch the end of this beautiful animal. When the stallion trots by the side of the chariot, I have leaped onto the edge, hurled myself into the air, and landed on its back.

The crowd dies away, the parade likewise. It's just me and the horse, like back home. He rears at the sudden weight, but I stay on easily, whispering and stroking his neck. The horse recognizes my voice, my scent. I feel him trembling, and he runs. I let him, knowing that he needs to get the fear and agitation out, but also knowing that I can guide him. Sure enough, the slightest pressure of my knees directs the horse down the avenue, past the chariots from 10 and 11. We turn around and I see that the big male tribute from 10 is watching me with an intrigued look. But then I am back at the chariot, trotting next to Charlie. She looks at me with awestruck eyes.

The volume is turned up again and I realize that the crowd is screaming my name. I never intended to put on a show for them, but I have done just that. Well, there's no way to take it back, and I have no way to re-harness my mount to the chariot, so I continue to ride along until we reach the City Circle.

Once the last chariot arrives, we face the City Center and President Snow arrives with his entourage. He steps up and begins the immensely long, terribly repetitive speech that he gives every year. Between insuring that my mount is under control and scanning the crowds that face us, I don't hear a word of it.

The people behind Snow are a study in the Capitol's finest excesses. Prominent are favored wives and concubines in the President's harem. Many are beautiful, but others are so altered that it's grotesque. A cat-woman here, a colored bird there. A woman with white skin and hair in flaming orange robes. Another with purple skin and shaved head sporting tiny horns. Another in jeweled red and saffron, standing near the back watching the tributes with intense interest. It almost seems like she's staring at me. Desperately. Hungrily.

I know that face, even from that distance. I know those eyes, even after many years. The lips that sang me to sleep are the same, even if the clothes are rich. The hands that now grip the side of the balcony are white and bloodless but as strong as when they would rock me to sleep.

No one hears the word that drops from my lips. It's meant for only me and the woman I can't tear my eyes from.

"Mom."


	8. Chapter 8

Jason:

The Hunger Games are required viewing for all of Panem. Including the districts. Especially the Districts. After all, that's why they were created, so that the spectacle of our family or friends or neighbors slaughtering each other reminds us to quell all rebellious thoughts.

There was no work today. The lumber camps are closed on important days of the Games. In past years I have usually watched the Games at home with my mother. Sometimes, my sister and her husband would join us, although I rarely see them nowadays since they live in one of the outlying villages. Two years ago, my whole family gathered at my aunt and uncle's house to watch my cousin compete in the 2nd Quarter Quell. Cameron was the most promising tribute the district had seen in years, scoring a nine in training and receiving donations from quite a few sponsors. He was so handy with axes that the Careers invited him to join their little hunting pack, and we watched as Cameron made it to the final twelve. Then, as the remnants of the Careers were fighting the eventual Victor, Cameron was shot down by some little girl with a poisoned blowdart. I can still hear my aunt's wails as she watched her son's face grow bloated and blue from the poison. The next day, small gifts of food were left on the doorstep.

Watching the Hunger Games from the Tav could not be more different. It almost reminds me of the images shown from the Capitol, with the cheering crowds and faces eager to watch the spectacle. I came back here for the Opening Ceremonies, although I swore I would limit myself to two beers. I won't be forgetting my last hangover in a hurry. Even worse, I lost the token I was going to give to Blight, the only physical memory I have of my dad. The guilt I feel over that hurts worse than the headache did.

The Tav is packed, of course, and the screens are broadcasting the first images of the Opening Ceremonies. Burgen, Abel and Jonel are awarded seats of honor at the table nearest to the bar where the Tav wenches keep their pints constantly full. The usual crew is gathered around them, laughing and jeering. In fact, there seem to be more than usual. Everyone is eager to see the first glimpse of Blight since he was shipped off to the Capitol. I'm worried about what I might see on that screen. Every year the tributes are dressed up and paraded around for the Capitol to gawk at. Many times the outlandish costumes make the tributes a mockery in front of Panem. I'm praying to all the gods that Blight lands a good stylist. He's already been humiliated in front of the whole district. He doesn't deserve to repeat the experience in front of the whole country.

Like last night, Abel and Connell wave me over. I join them, despite my reluctance. Over the past couple of days, my friendship with my mates has soured, at least in my mind. Nevertheless I sit in my usual spot next to Ercole, nod to the barmaid to bring me a pint, and try to tune out the unceasing speculations on the upcoming Games. This proves to be unsuccessful as Abel seizes the opportunity to pull over a short, weedy looking man who's wearing a suit a couple of sizes too big for him.

"Jason, meet Jono," Abel says with a wink. "He's the one booking the odds for the elf. You've still got to make your bet."

"Right now, the odds are for Blight to die off in the bloodbath," he says in a reedy voice. "Followed by being eliminated by the Careers. Odds increase for each day of survival. Worst odds are for Blight to reach the final eight. Well, I suppose the worst odds are for him to win, but no one's been willing to take that chance yet!" His smirk tugs at my stomach, and I have to push down a sudden urge to grab him by his thin throat and shake him like a dog for so casually speaking about the death of a boy he's never met. Instead, I reach into my pocket, pull out a few sesterces and toss them on the table.

"There you be. That Blight wins."

The bookie's eyebrows seem to shoot straight up into his hair. Before he can say anything, Abel laughs and seizes the money.

"Boyo, if you're going to just throw away your money, you might as well make sure your mates have a round to show for it!" My money is quickly converted to drinks for everyone at the table as Jono leaves, no doubt to collect more bets from the eager crowd. Suddenly, a collective roar rises from the patrons nearest to the huge screens.

"It's starting! It's starting!"

I look up at the screens. Since I was passed out for the recaps of the reapings, this is my first look at Blight's competition. As usual, when the chariots with the Careers roll out they are greeted with immense cheering. The Careers look confident and self-assured, waving to the crowd and holding their hands in victory signs in the air so that they can 'accidentally' flex their developed muscles. The Careers haven't worked a day in their lives. They've spent every moment training to kill kids for the Capitol's entertainment. They're usually regarded with loathing in the rest of the districts.

The chariots roll by, one, two, three, four. The commentators gush about each tribute and costume, predicting style trends and sponsorship deals. The stylists are pulled on screen so they can give insight to the tributes they have dolled up. District 6 passes by on screen, their tributes dressed in gods awful old-fashioned railway uniforms. A hush gathers through the Tav. We know who's next. A large woman all decked out in silver is on screen, talking to the commentator.

"Well of course, Antonia, Blight Gavin has been a stylist's dream! Confident, assured, and very handsome, of course-" A roar of laughter from the Tav drowns out her next words. It quiets down just in time for the stylist, Lucia, to announce, "I give you Blight and Charlotte, the tree-elves of District 7!"

The din in the Tav is incredible. Tears of laughter are pouring down Abel's face as he pounds the table with his fist. Burgen is roaring as his mates clap him on the back. Whoops and jeers and hollers are bandied about. I want to bury my face in my hands. I can't watch this. Out of all the things they could have done to him, this is the worst. This will destroy him and any chance he had. But I can't look away. And then Blight appears. And the room goes silent.

He's dressed as a tree-elf. So is Charlie. And far from looking ridiculous, or pathetic, or silly, they look - amazing. Like the gods of the forest have taken human forms. Gone is the dirt and filth of the stables from Blight's face. Symbols painted on his half-naked body glow like fire. But far brighter are his eyes, which sweep the crowd in that way he has, as if nothing can touch him. The commentators are in hysterics, squealing and cooing over the spectacle. The cameras follow District 7 for a long time, longer than any other district. Then comes the moment when the horse breaks loose and Blight leaps onto its back and calms it. And that's when I realize that no matter what they possibly do to him, the Capitol will not break Blight. Because he's exactly the way I saw him in the stables yesterday, focusing on his mount and nothing else, not even noticing that the road in front of him is being littered with roses and confetti.

The noise level of the Tav resumes, but in a very different tone than before. As President Snow mounts the podium and begins his speech, I see my fellow district citizens give each other bemused looks. The speech ends and the chariots wheel around and return, and each time the camera returns to Blight, the commentators are speculating on how many sponsors will be just fascinated with the mysterious and exciting tributes from 7. Much time is spent on Charlie's beauty, but it's Blight's spectacle on the horse that is the hit of the evening. I can't help but notice, however, that Blight is different on the way back. His eyes stare straight ahead and his mouth is a set straight line. He doesn't even seem to know where he is. Maybe he's just concentrating on guiding his mount without reins or a saddle. Before I can speculate further, the tributes have disappeared back into the hold of the massive tower.

Jonel turns to his father and brother. "This changes everything."

"No it doesn't" says Burgen. He's so drunk I'm surprised we can understand him. "This changes nothing."

"Yes it does! He wasn't supposed to have sponsors! Sponsors can make all the difference! Remember Cora! Remember-"

"Shut up you stupid boy! He ain't gonna have no sponsors! Now shut up and get yer old man another beer."

"But if-"

"Jonel, you're an idiot," says Abel. "Who's in charge of sponsorship deals?"

Jonel has to scrunch his face up in deep thought for a moment. "The mentors."

"And who sends gifts to tributes in the arena?"

"The mentors."

"And who is Blight's mentor?"

"Um...Eamon."

"And who's idea was it to force Blight into the Games, take bets on who's going to gut him, and make sure that he doesn't get any help from the outside?"

"Yours and...oh yeah, Eamon's!"

"Idiot."

I'm staring at Abel. I don't even remember getting up or walking over to him. He looks up at me.

"Something you need, boyo?"

I don't answer. I just punch him in the face.

Abel's swearing can't be heard over the roar of noise that follows. Hands are holding me back as I'm shouting words I can hardly even hear myself. "You gods-cursed, Capitol mongrel, dog-breeding, foul, little-!"

"What is your problem!" screams Abel as he tries to pick himself off the floor. Burgen is making his way towards me, his eyes promising me pain, but I'm too incensed to care.

"You planned this! All of you! You're making money off his death! That's all this is to you, you bastards!"

"What do you even care! It's just Blight!"

"He's your brother! He's your own brother you evil-"

"What is he to you?" Abel's back on his feet and his eyes are gleaming. "What is my brother to you, Jason? Don't tell me you've been bending over for the horses with him."

I bring my fist back again, ready to pound the life out of my best friend, but strong hands seize my wrists and haul me off. I struggle but it's two on one and I've had a couple beers. It's not until we get outside to the square where the massive screens are still playing the clip of Blight's leap onto the horse that the adrenaline begins to drain away. And then I see that the arms that hold me are clad in white uniforms and it's replaced by fear. The Peacekeepers have me.

The Justice Building is just across the square from the Tav, and I am quickly hustled in through a side entrance. The wing I am in is made of bare concrete, a sharp contrast to the decorated facade outside. I'm led into a bare room with just one metal chair and a lantern hanging from the ceiling. One Peacekeeper stays outside the door and the other follows me in. He doesn't waste any time and he pushes me into the chair .

"Troublemaker, eh?"

"No. I didn't mean to-"

A slap across the face. Hard.

"Don't speak unless asked a question. You're a troublemaker."

"No! I-"

Another slap. Harder this time.

"Disrupting viewing of the Games is a serious offense."

I stay silent this time. I still get hit.

"You are a dangerous hothead. Do you know how we cool off hotheads?"

More slaps. Punches. A kick or two.

"What other subversive activity are you involved in?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me boy!"

"I'm not!"

"I said, no more lies-"

The Peacekeeper's interrogation is cut off by heated voices outside the door. Seemingly, someone wants to get inside, but the other Peacekeepers won't let him. The door flies open and a young Peacekeeper sticks his head in and looks at the one who's been questioning me.

"Sir, I tried to stop him, I did, but he said-" The boy's words are cut off as a massive figure fills the doorway. My breath is cut off by the arrival of this new threat, but then suddenly it's let out in a sigh of relief. It's Mack. And he's looking towards the Peacekeepers with ill-kept contempt.

"Let the boy go," he says.

The Peacekeeper's lips curl. "On whose authority?"

"Head Peacekeeper Core's. You have no right to detain this boy."

"He was disrupting official mandatory viewing of the Hunger Games."

"Mandatory viewing had ended at the time of his disruption. You have no basis for holding him."

The Peacekeeper takes a step towards Mack, clearly trying to intimidate him. "The Peacekeepers do not need cause to detain suspected subversives. As you would do well to remember."

Mack takes a step forward, and due to his size his action is much more effective. "Head Peacekeeper Core WILL be hearing about this."

The Peacekeeper doesn't keep the disgust from his voice. "Very well. We all know how our Head Peacekeeper sits in your pocket, Mack. But you might want to keep your head down, lest the Capitol hears about how Core is catering to subversives."

I don't understand the exchange that has just passed, only that I think I heard an order for my release tucked in there somewhere. Sure enough, Mack takes my arm and literally pulls me from the chair. He marches to the door and pulls it open without a backwards glance. Leading me from the Justice Building, he doesn't look at me until we are well under the cover of the forest. Finally, he spins me around and nearly slams me against a tree.

"You little fool! I warned you! I WARNED you! What did I say about keeping your head down?"

"Mack, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry? Sorry?" He throws back his head and laughs. "Do you hear that!" he calls to the trees. "The boy is sorry! Well that makes everything just fine then!"

The emotions of the night, the thrill of seeing Blight, the anger at the callousness of the District, the fear at my arrest and the shame I now feel at failing Mack's directive so spectacularly threaten to overwhelm me. I bury my face in my hands so I don't have to look at him. A few horrible moments pass until finally Mack lets out a great sigh and hands me a cloth from his pocket. I must look confused, because Mack gestures to my mouth. I put my hand there and find blood. I didn't even notice the pain. Quickly, I wipe my mouth and face clean.

"You're lucky that the Head Peacekeeper is more reasonable than Trey - the man who interrogated you. If I hadn't been there, things could have been much worse."

"How did you get Core to go along with it?"

"I didn't have to." Despite himself, Mack grins. "Everyone knows that Core and I have a mutually beneficial relationship."

"What kind of-"

"Never you mind. Let's just say that the illegal brewing industry here in 7 is very profitable and that even the Head Peacekeeper isn't paid as well as he'd like to be. If my cellar is convenient enough to store a bit of moonshine, then so be it. Don't want to get on the Capitol's bad side. The point is, boy, you behaved foolishly in the extreme. There is far more at stake here than you can imagine."

"I really am sorry Mack. I just couldn't sit there and let them...let them."

"I know. Listen Jason, I know how infatuated you are with that boy." He looks at me with an odd look in his eye. "And I know that it may be more. And I know this is hard for you after your cousin regardless. But the fact that we have to face is that when Blight dies - don't say anything, we all want to believe differently, but the fact is that Blight will probably die. And when he does, a lot of people will have made a lot of money. And then the whole District will be in trouble."

"How do you mean?"

"Jason, the Hunger Games are a reminder to the districts of how much we deserve to suffer after the Dark Days. We aren't supposed to profit off of them! When word gets back to the Capitol about how 7 took advantage of the Hunger Games to make a bit of money, and rest assured that they will hear about it, then we'll all have hell to pay. I've already been in contact with your sister, and she's prepared to take in you and your mum and my family as well the moment Blight dies. If there is anyone else you need to save, prepare them. The outlying villages will most likely be safest."

A chill has run down my body at Mack's words. Unbidden, the images of District 13, bombed into oblivion, play in my mind. Is this the fate that awaits my home? My family? Because of the idiocy of greedy men?

"So, from now on, you'll be watching the Hunger Games with me. So that I can keep an eye on that temper of yours, lad. Anything you want to say, or do, you will curtail it. There are lives at stake now, and not just yours or Blight's."

I nod wordlessly.

"You really like him, don't you?"

I can hardly speak. "I...I...it's just happening so fast."

Mack clasps my arm. "It always does, lad. It always does."

"Thank you, Mack."

Mack wordlessly leads the way from the fringes of the forest, down the street to the corner where we part ways. Before he heads to his home, however, he turns to me once more.

"Blight is going into that arena with no sponsors, no support from the outside, and no official allies. But despite anything Burgen or Abel or Eamon can do, they can't take away the fact that the boy is brilliant, resourceful, and filled with courage and will. Pray to all the gods you hold dear that it's enough to hold him through, because if he doesn't come out of this alive, we will all burn."


	9. Chapter 9

Blight:

Peacekeeper's Whore. Capitol Slut. Gods-damned Woman. Traitor.

I've heard all these names over the past nine years from many mouths in District 7. All of them about my mother. All of them lies.

Blight of my life. Tree-Elf. Moss-Wipe. Nature Baby.

My mother is alive. I've always believed she was, but now I've seen her with my own eyes for the first time since I was seven years old. And she's not where we were told she was. The Peacekeepers said that she had run away to District 2. With Marrow, the Head Peacekeeper before Core. But she's not there. She's here in the Capitol. Not only that, she's part of President Snow's personal harem. The hands that combed my hair, that wiped away my tears, that held me tight when I woke up in the night crying are being used by the evil, evil man who runs all of Panem. How long has she been here, dressed in fine clothes and jewels, living in an opulent mansion, unable to return to the husband and sons who needed her?

As I lay in my bedroom on the seventh floor of the Training Center, eyes wide and staring at the blank ceiling, I find no answers. And I am unlikely to ever get any, because in five days I am going into the arena. Five days. I will never get to speak to my mother again. Never ride the horses, feeling for the only time in my life that I am free of everything. Never talk to Jason, remedy the wrong that I did against him, take the opportunity to get to know him.

I'm awakened by a sharp knock at my door. I didn't even realize that I had fallen asleep, but I must have because light is breaking through the floor to ceiling windows and Tutti Marble is chirping that we have a big, exciting day ahead for me and that I need to come to breakfast. I ponder lying in bed and ignoring her. The last thing I want to do is face Tutti and Eamon and Vera and attempt to make polite conversation. Pretend that they're not my own personal executioners. But I'll have to get up eventually, since this is the first day of training. Besides, I'm hungry.

Sure enough, I'm the last one to arrive at the table. Ignoring Tutti's shrill cry of "Tardy!" I sit down and help myself to rolls and bacon. Vera and Charlie are deep in conversation, no doubt reviewing some last bits of strategy for her training. Eamon is on my left and, as usually, Tutti has positioned herself so as to be as physically close to him as possible. She's exchanged her green suit and hair for a new platinum silver ensemble. I suspect that this was done to mimic Madame Lucia's trademark, but it looks gaudy and painful next to Lucia, who still commands that effortless grace and command even as she butters her own roll. Next to her is a small man with a face like a mouse dressed all in purple. I think that his name is Gloudus, and I realize that he must be Charlie's stylist. His hands seem to be quivering in the excitement of being so close to Lucia, so much so that he nearly knocks over her cup of coffee when she asks him to pass the sugar. She spares him one look of disdain before turning to me.

"You were spectacular last night, Mr. Gavin. Not only were Madame Lucia's humble efforts successful in transforming you into the centerpiece of the parade, but your own performance on that dreadful beast earned you many accolades above and beyond your triumphal entry. Most sponsors only get a sense of a tribute's potential at the scoring two days from now. You, however, have beaten them all to the punch. Well done, my child." She turns to Eamon. "I trust that you and Mr. Gavin have devised a suitable strategy for capitalizing on this, Eamon?"

Eamon flashes her his signature smile. "Blight and I have discussed at length how he will conduct himself in the arena. Our strategy is such that training almost doesn't matter. We are confident that the outcome will be the same. But we can't say anymore her. Don't want Charlie and Vera to get a hint of what's to come, do we?" He winks at her.

"Don't count us out just yet, Eamon," Vera says. "Charlie's still well in the game. Madame Lucia's costume idea got her almost as much attention as Blight, and she's already being hailed as the most beautiful tribute since Cora. She has a definite advantage over many of the districts as well."

"Then may the best tribute win," says Eamon with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, she certainly will."

"And I can't wait to see what they're going to wear in the interviews!" says Tutti, once again displaying a knack for not picking up on sinister undertones that are in no way subtle. "Lucia, you've inspired me so much, I knew I just had to adapt your brilliant style to my own personal wardrobe!" At this she shifts in her seat so that her silver hair and suit catch the light painfully.

Lucia raises one eyebrow. "It was your desire for everyone to remark on how you resemble a colorblind transvestite?"

Tutti's lower lip quivers. "That's...that's what people are saying?"

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time before you have to go out in public," I remark.

Tutti makes a squeaking, indignant sounding noise that normally isn't achievable by humans. Lucia's eyes meet mine, and I quickly take a gulp of coffee as she snaps open her fan, conveniently concealing her mouth. The rest of our companions make hasty conversation until the meal ends.

I'm soon full of excellent food, and I would like nothing more than to return to my quarters to sleep it off. Unfortunately, this isn't a possibility. Today is the first day of training, the first day that Charlie and I will learn the skills that will hopefully keep one of us alive. It will also be the first day that we interact with our fellow tributes. As soon as breakfast ends, the food is cleared away by mute slaves that I believe are called Avoxes. All of them have committed some crime or another and now must serve the Capitol that mutilated and enslaved them. I suddenly don't feel that my lot is so bad. At least when I die in the arena, it will be the end of my suffering. Theirs never will.

Tutti escorts us to the elevator and takes us to the gym deep below the apartments in the Training Center. I notice that she doesn't speak a word to either of us, but occasionally makes huffing noises as she adjusts her suit or hair. I suppress a smile and exit the elevator with Charlie, making my way into the gymnasium. Most of the other tributes are here already, milling around and avoiding everyone else's gaze. Charlie and I stick by each other as the number '7' is pinned to our sleeves. We join the rest of the tributes in listening to a woman named Atala list the stations. Some focus on survival, others on weapon training. We are not allowed to engage in combat with other tributes. We can spend as much or as little time at each station as we please. We have twelve hours on the first two days, and four on the third. At the end of training, we will showcase our skills for the Gamemakers, the twenty-four men and women who even now are lined up in seats around the gym, watching us. Our training begins...now.

Charlie immediately breaks away and heads to one of the survival stations, the one focusing on camouflage. I decide to head to the knife throwing station, as I remember from previous Games that knives are among the easiest weapons to get ahold of in the arena. Before I've gone many paces however, I find my way blocked. Six other tributes are standing in front of me. Most of them are bigger than I am, which isn't much of a feat. All of them look arrogantly self-assured. I ignore them and try to brush by, as I'm sure none of them can hold a conversation worthy of my trademark brilliance, but I'm stopped as the biggest blond kid grabs me by the shoulder.

"You aren't joining us," he says.

"Excuse me, twinkle-toes?"

The blonde girl next to him, whom I recognize from District 1, sneers. "Are you deaf? Link said, you aren't joining us, idiot."

"I can handle this, Alabaster," the boy says. "We saw your little trick on the pony. Very nice. And we saw how you volunteered for the Games. Brave of you kid, but stupid, because you're going to die anyway. Not everyone who volunteers gets into the Pack, and hate to break it to you but we're full up this year."

Traditionally, the tributes from 1, 2, and 4 team up to hunt down the tributes before taking each other out. I realize what this means. Lucia was right, I have been noticed. And now the Careers see me as a threat. Well, that's just brilliant. Life wasn't interesting enough till right now. I've been craving even more excitement.

I raise an eyebrow, a mannerism that I've picked up from Madame Lucia. "Rest assured, my dear friends, that joining your pack was not my intention. It's a shame though. Working with you six would have guaranteed me some more challenging adversaries than going against you. Butterflies, perhaps. Or sinister clumps of leaves."

Link doesn't bat an eyelid. "Don't bother with the survival skills, 7. When we get to the Cornucopia, you're my first target. You won't get twenty yards off the plate."

"Oh, Link, really? I'm you're first target? Look at me, I'm blushing." I bat my eyelids at him suggestively. One of the girls, I think the one from 2, snorts with laughter. Link glares at her, then walks off. The others follow him. The boy from 4 turns and draws a line over his throat back at me. I blow him a kiss.

The Careers split up and start working at the knife, ax, and sword stations. Well, so much for that. I'm not intimidated by the Careers, the worst they can do is kill me. But I'm not crazy enough to try to learn fighting skills with a group of blokes who are going to make their desire to gut me painfully obvious the entire time. So I head over to the survival stations and begin to learn how to build a tent out of pine branches.

I spend most of the first day at the survival stations. I occasionally work with another tribute, although we rarely make conversation. I do manage to learn how to build a proper campfire with Charlie, who has been joined by the girls from 8 and 9. Charlie introduces them as Qin Li and Bobbi. I nod hello but don't bother trying to make friends. I think I'm getting a feel for Charlie's strategy however. She's focusing on the survival stations as well, and already she's allied herself with two of the other beautiful girls. I'm guessing that they plan to make a mad dash from the Cornucopia and rely on smitten sponsors to give them supplies. It's not a bad idea, all said and done. I might have attempted it myself, but I'm lacking certain necessary qualities, like boobs. The day that a boy wins the Hunger Games based solely on his looks is the day I'll eat my boots.

After the fire-building session, I wander off on my own and end up at the knot tying station. No one else is here, and it's small wonder why. The instructor is teaching me various knots and snares, and I'm struggling with tying one when I hear a voice behind me.

"You ride good, kid."

I turn and see the boy from District 10 behind me. He's already working on a length of rope, ignoring glares from the instructor. My confusion must show on my face, because he repeats himself. "You ride real good. On the horse."

I nod and turn back to my knot. "Thank you."

"Where'd you learn to ride like that?"

I briefly explain my job in the District, not making eye contact. I'm just thinking that this kid is most likely trying to intimidate me as well when he plops down beside me and offers a hand.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Blight Gavin. District 7."

"Devon Hooley. Texas."

"What in the gods' names is a Texas?"

Devon grins at me. He's bigger, about eighteen, and like me has dark brown hair. His brown eyes are laughing and his grin seems too large for his face. "You can call it District 10 if you like, but a Texan is always going to be a Texan."

I turn away. The bloke makes no sense. He seems to sense my disinterest though, and stands. He takes his rope, which he has knotted into a large loop, far too large to be a noose. He takes the end and starts swinging it through the air. He suddenly lets go and the loop snares a dummy from the knife throwing station. Devon pulls it back towards him. I realize that I've gone from annoyed to deeply impressed. I've never seen something like that before.

"That's how we do it in Texas, kid."

We move on to a different station and on the way I learn nearly all of Devon's life story. He, like me, is the youngest of three boys. He's eighteen. His parents dote on him. He's been riding horses and roping cows in District 10 all his life. He's determined to come home to his family and his girl. Devon talks a mile a minute, which is convenient because I don't really feel like talking and he fills in all the silences. Once in a while I have to answer a question, but I keep my conversation free of insulting comments. Devon may be a bit of a goof, but with his size and his roping abilities, he's going to be another contender in these games. We pass Charlie on our way to a station. Devon whistles.

"You know, that district girl of yours is a real looker. Hoo-whee!"

I roll my eyes, and Devon nudges my ribs. "You want to get with that, kid. Don't deny it!"

I shake my head. "Charlie's sweet. And lovely. Just not my type."

Devon looks at me in shock. "Not your type? She's the most beautiful thing to come out of your woods I've ever seen! How high is your standard kid?"

"My standards are just different, I guess."

"You like boys?" I don't answer, but the blush I feel creeping up my neck is enough. A hand claps my shoulder. "It's all good, kid. One of my brothers is like that. Life's too short to pretend to be someone you're not."

I look at Devon just as he pulls something on a cord hanging around his neck. "My district token. That's my girl. See?" The locket has a picture painted inside, of a lovely brunette with big brown eyes. Devon's face is distant, and the expression on his face as he looks at the portrait of his beloved is filled with raw emotion. "I can't wait to move her into the Victor's Village," he says. "She deserves it so, so much."

The bell rings, signaling the end of the training day. As we head to the elevators, Devon turns to me. "Allies?"

A number of thoughts race through my mind, weighing the benefits and detriments of teaming up with Devon. The cons far outweigh the pros in my mind, so I'm shocked when my mouth opens and I say, "Of course."

Devon smiles and says, "See you tomorrow, kid." As he turns away, I allow the first smile of the day cross my lips. An ally.

"""""""""""

_Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_

Day two of training has arrived, and despite the Careers still lingering around the area, I'm determined to get some weapon training in. Axes aren't too bad, but I'm not a lumberjack like most of my district, so I don't have the advantage that many District 7 tributes do. I'm hopeless at sword fighting. My instructor practically begged me to leave. So here I am at the staff station, learning how to block and attack with a long pole of wood that's nearly my height. Shockingly, my instructor is all praise.

"You're a natural Blight! A real natural! Very good!"

She attacks with her own staff and I block nearly every blow. She then brings over instructors from the ax, sword and knife stations to show me how to block the various weapons. After a few hours hard work, I feel comfortable blocking anything she shows me. It's probably a symptom of using walking sticks during my hours traipsing the woods. The staff feels natural in my hands. The instructor nods in approval. "Make sure you demonstrate this to the Gamemakers. It can only help you in the arena."

"How do I even know that there will be a staff in the arena? There may not be."

"The Cornucopia isn't filled until the night before the Games. If the Gamemakers see something that interests them, they'll want to see it in the Games as well. Trust me, Blight."

I bow slightly to her, and continue my sparring until I hear a sharp shout behind me. It takes me a moment to realize that it's shouting my name. I turn to see Devon marching towards me, anger on his face. He grabs my shoulder when he reaches me and hauls me away.

"I thought we were allies! Allies, Blight! But when my mentor goes to Eamon to make it official, he turns her down. He laughs at her! What are you playing at, kid?"

I look around. Devon's outburst has gained a bit of attention, from tributes and instructors both. Even a couple of Gamemakers are looking over in our direction. I take him by the shoulder and lead him to the first empty station, edible plants. In a low voice I tell him everything. My father, the reaping, the blokes in the Justice Building, Eamon, everything.

Devon's face goes from anger, to bemusement, to pure horror. "That's...that's...Blight that's sick!"

"Devon, it's the Hunger Games. It's not supposed to be fair."

"But we're all supposed to have the same chance!"

I laugh and nod over to the Careers, who are bullying the boy from 9 at the knife throwing station. "Yeah, we all have an equal chance at this. Even the ones who haven't been training all our lives." Devon looks like he wants to say a lot more, but I cut him off. "It doesn't matter Devon. I thought better of it last night. I'm not going to ally myself with you. I'm not going to be the one who has to kill you. I've been put into this alone, and I'm doing it alone. With or without your approval. Besides, I'd be a terrible ally. The Careers have it out for me after my stunt with the horse and your best chance is to stay out of their sight. I don't have that luxury."

Devon looks at me long and hard. "One hour then."

"What?"

"A one hour alliance. We help each other get what we need from the Cornucopia. You'll need as much as you can get if Eamon won't let you have sponsors. Then we head out, divide the supplies and split off. Deal?"

I offer him my first real smile. The first real smile I've given someone since I arrived at the Capitol. "It's a deal."

"Wish I could make a deal like that," says a voice behind me. Unseen to Devon and me, the girl from District 2 has joined us at the station. "My allies are such idiots. I can't wait to break my alliance. I'm Plautia, by the way."

Devon and I regard her with mingled disbelief and apprehension. Devon speaks first. "Bullshit. You're a Career. You wanted to be here. You're just like them."

She glares at him. "I'm nothing like them! It wasn't my choice to be here."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I say. "Aren't you the one who backhanded a girl on your way up the stage? Seemed pretty eager."

Plautia looks at the floor. "My uncle's a Victor," she says. "24th Hunger Games. He won when he was fifteen, like me. If I didn't volunteer, he'd be...he'd be so..."

And suddenly I can't look at her. This pampered Career girl with the training, and the attitude and the allies. This girl who despite everything is exactly like me. And only one of us can win. And probably neither of us will. Fortunately I don't have to say anything, because Plautia talks at least as much as Devon and soon has us all up to date on Link and Alabaster, her district partner Quintus, and the disgustingly cheerful District 4 tributes, Romani and Tara. She makes her strategy clear to us. She's going to stick with the Careers as long as she can, and then skip out before they turn on each other and live off the woods. Hence the edible plants. She told her allies that she was really trying to spy on us, but she's trying to get an advantage on them somehow. My first instinct is being proven correct. I like her more and more.

Plautia soon has to return to her allies, but Devon and I finish the day by focusing on the weapons again. I polish my staff skills as Devon finds that he is quite competent with a two-handed ax. As the bell rings, I leave for my quarters feeling more optimistic than I have since I volunteered at the reaping.

"""""""""

"Blight Gavin!"

I swallow hard as my name is called. The third day of training is over. Twelve tributes have gone into the gym to perform for the Gamemakers before me. My name has just been called. It's my turn. I head out and catch Charlie's eye. She smiles encouragingly at me. Behind her, Devon gives me a thumbs up. I grin at them and enter the gym.

The Gamemakers are watching me - sort of. They're lounging around eating and drinking and I'm suddenly frozen. The stations are before me, but I don't know where to go or what to do. I'm going to fail. I'm going to freeze. I want to curl up in a ball and cry, "Don't make me go, don't make me go!"

"You may begin, District 7."

And I'm off. I'm running to the staff station and I pick up the long staff that I worked with. Unfortunately there are no assistants to spar with, so I consider faking it. Then I have a better idea. I imagine myself at home, among the trees. The staff is just another branch in my hand. I run amongst the apparatus on the gym floor. I use the staff to launch me into flips, spins and dives. My feet barely touch the floor as I leap from wall to wall, from the net on the ceiling to the vault on the floor. I even leap across the heads of the dummies, my feet landing just long enough to spring off again. In five minutes I circle the massive room tree times. It's an impressive display of acrobatics, if I do say so myself.

And apparently I'm the only one thinking so. The Gamemakers are looking at me with bored expressions. They want to see a show. They want blood. Not a prancing kid. I know this and I hate them for it. And suddenly their faces blur and I'm facing not the Gamemakers but my home. My dad. Abel. Ercole. Jonel. Connell. All the rest. They're all safe and sound up there, watching me. Laughing at me.

I wipe all my emotion from my face, and a hot fire is lit in my stomach. I begin again, but this time as I flip by the knife station, I grab two and launch them at a dummy, which strangely still has Jonel's face. I turn aside but to my surprise I hear the knives make impact. I'm already at the axes, using them to tear down the dummies at the station. The faces laugh at me. I lash out. Erole falls, an ax buried in his chest. Tobin has his eyes gouged out by another knife. Connell is beheaded with a sword. Abel's chest is ripped through and his stuffing is strewn around the room. My father is gutted through the stomach with a spear. And finally one dummy is left, and Eamon is there, standing with his indifference towards my life. My _life_. And the staff knocks him down. The ax slices off his feet and hands. The sword takes off the arms and legs. The eyes are again gouged out and I slice him a new mouth, letting the white stuffing pour out. Finally, the staff is brought down so hard that it penetrates the soft cloth of his stomach and sticks.

I look up. There are no more dummies standing. Bits of blue cloth and white stuffing litter the room. The Gamemakers are watching me with dumbfounded faces. And I realize that they've spent the last ten minutes watching the tree-elf of District 7 go on a killing spree.

"You may go, District 7."

I turn and leave, kicking aside a severed dummy's head as I pass. I feel the Gamemakers' eyes on me as I exit. I'm grateful that the door is opposite them, that my back is to them, so they don't see me blinking away the tears.


	10. Chapter 10

Blight:

"So what did you do?"

Charlie is looking at me eagerly as she enters our seventh floor apartment. I'm lounging on the massive white couch in the living room, flipping channels on the screen in front of me. The only programs running are reruns of previous games and recaps of this year's reapings and opening ceremonies. Antonius and Antonia, the Hunger Games commentators, are on three channels at once, blathering away about this tribute or that hairstyle. I flip the program off and face Charlie as she settles next to me.

"I set up a campfire in less than five minutes, found some edible plants and threw a couple spears. Don't think they were that impressed. But what did you do? I had to wait twenty minutes before they would even let me in. They were watching me like a hawk the whole time. You must have really impressed them!"

I let out a bark of laughter. "I doubt that. Essentially I threw a temper tantrum and left a mess. Believe me, they are NOT going to be impressed by that."

Charlie raises her eyebrows. "Blight...you didn't!"

"Yep. You know I can't get through one event of these Games without making some sort of scene. The Gamemakers aren't going to be sorry to see me go."

Charlie's face hardens at that. "Don't say that," she says. "Don't you ever say that."

I look at her, and something in my face makes her bite her lip. "We've been avoiding it, haven't we?" I ask.

She nods.

"One of us is going to die. Probably both. And a lot of other people."

She lets out a sob. "It's not fair! I don't want to die! I don't want you to die. And Qin Li and Bobbi, I feel like we would have been friends. I like them! We work so well together, and we've worked so hard, and I can't help but think that two of us at least are going to die and I don't want it to be me, but I just feel like I could never, ever hurt them-"

I take her by the shoulders. "That's enough, Charlie! Enough! Now look at me." I take her chin in my hand and force her lovely eyes to look into mine. "When the time comes, Qin Li and Bobbi are going to die. And you are going to do it. If they come at you with a knife, you gut them with a spear. If a mutt is tearing them apart, you leave them to die. If it's just a couple of you left, then you don't sleep, you don't eat anything they give you and you knife them in the back the first opportunity you get. Do you understand me?"

She's trying to blink back tears. "Blight..."

"I said, do you understand me?"

"Yes," she whispers.

She's starting to sob, so I take her head and hold it against my chest. "You have a father and sisters who need you. You deserve every chance to go home to them. I'm praying to all the gods that it's either you or Devon who win this thing."

She looks at me. "Blight, why have you given up already?"

"I haven't. I'm going to try my damned best to win. But I'm going at it alone, and it's my choice in the end. The odds have never been in my favor. So when the gong sounds in three days, I want you to give me up for dead. Chances are, you won't see me in the arena at all until it's my face up in the sky. Keep your allies close, but you need to think about one person, and that's you."

She doesn't respond other than to bury her face deeper into my shirt. We stay like this for a while, not speaking but not uncomfortable. For the moment, we're not tributes, opponents, or contenders, just two scared kids who don't want to face the next few days.

Such moments are, of course, antithesis to Tutti Marble's existence, and so when she bustles in to announce dinner, she gives us a disapproving sound.

"You two aren't even washed up from your session! For shame! No one wants to eat dinner with faces like those! Wash and clean up you two!"

"No one wants to eat dinner with a face like yours either, Tutti," I remark, "But you continually subject us to it." Nevertheless, we break apart and go to our respective rooms to wash up. Just to spite Tutti, I decide to have a long, drawn out shower, playing with each respective setting so that bubbles and lotions of all kinds anoint my tired body.

Sure enough, when I arrive for dinner I am very, very tardy. But fortunately Tutti doesn't say anything. I sit next to Madame Lucia, who pats my hand and indicates an Avox to serve me a large helping of a delicious meat and noodle pasta. I notice that Eamon is late as well. In fact, he never shows up. Gloudus remarks on this and Tutti rolls her overlarge eyes at him.

"He's out getting sponsors, of course. Gloudus, really, where else do you think he'd be? And let's be frank, it's obviously going to take him a bit longer than average, because his tribute this year really is going to need all the help he can get." There's a slight smirk across her face as she says this, which is quickly wiped away by a voice to my left.

"He's at the bar, Tutti."

Tutti's mouth opens indignantly at Madame Lucia's words. "I beg your pardon. Eamon would never-"

"He's at the bar. Drinking away his sesterces and placing bets on the Games. Against his own tribute. And don't bother to argue. Madame Lucia has her sources."

Tutti flushes a deep shade of puce. "Eamon would never engage in such an activity during prep week! He takes his responsibility very seriously! You're just jealous, you puffed-up, ancient, old has-been!"

Madame Lucia stands very slowly. "Would you care to repeat that, my child?"

Tutti opens and closes her mouth several times, and then looks down at her plate.

"I didn't think so."

Charlie, Vera, Gloudus and I have been watching this exchange with mingled apprehension (them) and amusement (me). Fortunately, the screen in the living room chooses this moment to send a soft ring across the room and switch on of its own accord. Tutti delicately wipes her mouth with a napkin. "Shall we go get our scores then?"

She leads the way into the living room and settles herself on the end of the couch. Vera and Charlie sit next to each other and Madame Lucia settles herself besides me. She takes my hand in hers and strokes it. Her skin is surprisingly rough despite all the creams and lotions I know she must use. Evidence of hours and hours spent making her creations.

Antonius and Antonia spend a couple of minutes exchanging pleasantries, and then updating all of us on the scoring system. As if any of us were unawares. Tributes are scored between one (abysmal) and twelve (absolutely god-like). There has never been a twelve. A one pops in every now and then. Careers score in the high range, everyone else usually averages a five or six, with a few exceptions. The scores, as Antonia reminds us, are nothing more than a base point for the sponsors and those placing bets, so they can calculate the odds. A few more jokes pass, and then the scores begin to appear.

The first few are typical. Link, the blond from 1 who has his wicked-looking eye on me, scores a ten. Alabaster gets an eight. Quintus and Plautia both get a nine. I hope Plautia's uncle is pleased, for her sake. Even though I loathe Careers on principle, Plautia has rubbed off on me in a good way. I like her spirit. And her mouth. I wouldn't be too fussed if she won.

District 3 is typically abysmal, 4 does well. 5 and 6 get, ironically enough, fives and sixes. And then it's 7. I see my face on the screen, giving an impish little half-smile. Then a ten flashes across the screen and Madame Lucia is embracing me. The noise level is rushing past me and I can't tear my eyes from my own face with a ten plastered over it. A ten! It was more than I could have hoped for.

Charlie embraces me as well and Vera gives me a nod of congratulations. Tutti swoops down and kisses both my cheeks, no doubt thinking of all the parties she's sure to be invited to now that she's escorting a high-ranked tribute. Vera shushes us quickly and we all look to the screen where Charlie's face is now shown. A moment's pause and then the number seven appears. Another rush of noise, and we're all embracing and congratulating her. A seven is nothing to scoff at. If nothing else, this is sure to get Charlie sponsors.

"That must have been some campfire," I whisper as I embrace her.

"Well, a dummy may have ended up in a snare roasting over it," she says with a wicked little smile.

I roll my eyes. "By all the gods. The Gamemakers must think that District 7 is breeding sadistic psychos."

Lucia hears me say this. "Sadistic psychos get sponsors, my child. Lucia is very proud. Of both of you!"

The rest of the scores pass in a blur, but I do see that Devon managed an eight while his tiny district partner only secured a two.

Tutti clears her voice and announces that everyone present deserves a treat to celebrate. She claps her hands and an Avox appears carrying a silver tray with six crystal glasses on it. We each take one and she makes a toast "to District 7! May the odds continue to be in their favor." We down the drink and Charlie and I gasp at the sensation of the tingling, bubbling liquid. She puffs out her cheeks, I squirt some out my nose. Tutti is tittering that champagne shouldn't be wasted, and she looks so distressed that Charlie and I laugh harder. Finally she cracks a grin and we're all holding our sides with glee when the door bursts open with a bang.

Eamon is framed against the doorway. He does not look pleased.

He strides from the door, knocking a chair away as he approaches us. The laughter has died away, and my companions are looking at him with bemused expressions. I don't back away, although I know exactly what has put him in a right state.

Sure enough, when he gets to the living room he swipes a lamp of the table and roars at me, "What did you do?" He vaults over the couch and is upon me. His strong fingers are around my throat and I'm shoved back into the wall.

"What did you do? Tell me! Tell me right now!"

I'm gasping for breath. Behind me I can hear the fearful cries of Charlie, the angry shouts of Madame Lucia, but Eamon ignores them. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as his face is uncomfortably close to mine.

"Do you have any idea what you've done! Any idea of how difficult you've made this for me?" He throws me away from him and raises a hand. I'm sure he's going to strike me when another hand with many silver rings seizes his wrist. Eamon tries to break away from her hold, but Madame Lucia doesn't budge. She is much stronger than she appears.

"Is there a problem, Eamon?" Her eyes are cold. Her voice is dangerously soft.

Eamon faces her. "Blight, he, he's ruining the...the plan." He belches. Lucia's face is etched with disgust, but she doesn't release him. Behind me, hands with long silver nails clasp my shoulders as Tutti Marble looks at Eamon with unflattering disbelief.

"The stupid elf, he got...he wasn't supposed to...he got a."

"A ten," says Madame Lucia. "Mr. Gavin achieved a ten. Aren't you proud of your tribute, my child?"

Something seems to click in Eamon's eyes and he realizes what dangerous ground he's treading, how much about the true nature of my entry into the Games he's revealed. I can almost see the wheels in his head try to laboriously overcome his inebriation, and to my surprise he comes up with an excuse.

"That wasn't the plan," he said. "I told Blight to appear mediocre, so as to not attract attention to himself. Obviously he ignored my advice."

"And just as obviously, your advice was ill-given. Blight has no chance of appearing mediocre. Not after the Opening Ceremonies. One has to wonder whether you're taking your duties as a mentor seriously, Eamon."

A wiser or more cowardly man than Eamon would have fled under the look that Lucia is giving him, but Eamon looks her straight in the face. "Be careful how you address me. I'm a Victor, and a mentor. Moreover, I am Blight's mentor. I will decide how he is to present himself during these games. Not his hairstylist."

Lucia releases his wrist. "Be careful, Victor," she says. "You're not a citizen of the Capitol yet." And with that, she sweeps her robes around her and departs from the apartment.

"Well, shall we all retire for the evening?" asks Tutti brightly, and for once I am grateful for her habit of breaking the mood. Without another word between us, we depart for our rooms. I lay in my bed for a moment before sleep takes me, trying to erase the burning look of hatred Eamon gave me before he left the apartment from my mind.

""""""""""

In my dreams, my mother is by my small bed back in our cabin in District 7. I'm a small child again, ill with some fever or another, and she's feeding me hot broth as she tells me stories. My favorites are the ones she tells me of the Giants' City, the great ruins of the Americans. I ask her if the Giants' City is real, and she tells me that it doesn't matter. If I believe it's real, then it is. She takes me in her arms, and strokes my cheek. Her soft hands lull me to sleep. Everything is well. All is good.

I awake with a start. It's still night. The cabin, the broth, the fever all vanish as I open my eyes. The hands do not.

I spin around in my bed and face the figure seated on the side of the mattress. The jewels at her throat glimmer in the moonlight. Her silks rustle as she moves. The sheer veil that covers her head partially obscures her face. But I could never forget those eyes. Or those hands.

My voice breaks, and I can hardly get the word out. "Mom?"

A hand raises and removes the veil. I see the smile.

"Mom!"

And I'm in her arms, and crying like I haven't since she vanished and I told myself that I would never cry in front of someone again. My body shakes with sobs and I hold her as she grasps me like a drowning person.

"Mom, oh Mom, oh Mom."

I look into her face. "Mom, what are you doing here?" I nearly yell.

She blanches and raises a finger to her lips. I quiet my voice and repeat the question in a whisper. She smiles sadly and shakes her head.

"Mom, how did you get here? In the Capitol?"

Another shake of her head.

"Mom, what's wrong? Why won't you talk to me?"

She shakes her head one more time. She points to her lips and shakes her head again. And then I realize.

My mother is an Avox.

I rest my head on her shoulder again and close my eyes, too numb to cry anymore or even speak for the moment. Her hands caress my face, as if eager to memorize every inch of the son who resembles her so much. Despite what must have been nine long and terrible years, my mother is still beautiful. I can see myself in her face, and suddenly a great swell of pride rises in me, to be the son of this strong woman. And then the whole story gushes out.

"He volunteered me, Mom! Dad volunteered me!" I tell her everything, how much I missed her, how Dad became a drunkard, Abel's cruelty, Jonel's indifference, the boys who mocked and tortured me every day of my life. The reaping, Eamon, how I'm going to die in the arena, how I'm so, so happy I got to see her one more time before I died. The only thing I leave out is Jason, because I don't know what to say about him. The thought of Jason is more confusing than even my mom's presence. She strokes my hair and listens. When I finally run out of breath, she points to herself and then to the side of her head.

_I know._

"You knew what happened?"

She nods, and points to TV screen in my room.

_I watched it all._

"I'm so sorry Mom."

She takes me by my arms and makes me face her. Her face is serious. She points to me. Then she makes a gesturing motion towards herself. Then she points to herself.

_Come back to me._

"I will, Mom. I'm coming back to you."

She points to herself, then places her hand over her heart, then points to me.

_I love you._

"I love you too, Mom."

And then my mother reaches into her sleeve and takes out something small and flat. She presses into my hand. I look down at it. It's a small wooden coin or disc. On it is etched a beautiful image of a rearing stallion. And suddenly I recognize it. It's the coin that Jason tried to give me in the Justice Building. The one that I hurled back in his face. The memory of his father that he wanted to give to me to remind me of home in the arena.

"Mom, how did you get this?"

Another shake of her head. She takes the coin and points at it. Then at her heart. Then at me.

"I know, Mom. I love you too."

Another vigorous head shake. She points at the coin, stabbing it with her finger. Then at my heart. Then at me.

_He loves you._

I look away. "No, Mom. You don't understand. Jason doesn't...he doesn't really-"

My mother takes my shoulder and makes me look at her. She takes the coin and presses it against my lips. Then my heart. Then into my hand.

_He LOVES you._

"I love him too," I whisper. And suddenly I am so tired. I lay down on my bed, Jason's coin clasped between my hands. I close my eyes, and feel my mother's hand on my cheek. I don't remember falling asleep.

When I wake up, it's morning. There is no sign of my mother. No evidence that she was ever here, except for the fact that I have slept more soundly than I have for the past nine years. And for the small wooden coin still pressed against my hand.

"""""""""""

Today is preparation day. Tomorrow is Interview Night, in which the tributes get to present themselves in front of all of Panem, and especially the Capitol. It's our opportunity to convince the wealthy men and women of the Capitol to sponsor them before the Games begin. Small wonder that a whole day is dedicated to preparing for this three minute interview.

Which means that, despite my prayers to all the gods of the forest that I hold dear, I will be spending the morning at the mercy of Tutti Marble.

Breakfast is a subdued affair. After last night's outbursts, no one is willing to meet anyone else's eyes longer than it takes to pass the butter. Therefore, I have an unusually quiet and enjoyable meal here in the Capitol. As soon as the Avoxes clear off the dishes, Vera whisks Charlie away to prepare her angle for the interviews. Eamon also departs, no doubt for some unscrupulous purpose. I am directed to the sitting room, and enter with great trepidation.

Tutti is waiting for me, an enormous smile plastered on her face. Her eyes dart continuously to the other side of the couch, where Madame Lucia is sitting with an eerily identical smile. Both of them eye me with feigned delight, and each other like ravenous sharks.

"Well, Blight," says Tutti. "We're here today to instruct you on the fine arts of poise and carriage. Do exactly as I say, with no quarrels or interruptions, and we might all get through this rather painlessly. She smiles even wider as her eyes promise me dreadful pain if I disagree.

I turn to Lucia. "Madame Lucia, I'm glad to see you of course, but is it usual for you to be here?"

It's remarkable how much Lucia looks like a cat eying a mouse. "Madame Lucia has made sufficient progress with your interview costume that she feels that she might take a small break. Madame deems it prudent, therefore, to ensure that Ms. Marble does not entirely ruin her tribute."

"Excuse me!" Tutti's voice has reached that pitch that only she has the talent to achieve. "I learned social graces from the absolute best-"

"If you're referring to your mother, that's precisely why I am here."

"Sit back Blight!" If she can't win on principle, than Tutti seems determined to succeed by volume. "Arms back. Legs apart! Casual! Cocky! Assured!"

"He looks like a discarded rag," snaps Lucia. "Sit up, child! Straight back! Elbows in!"

And so it begins. I walk, sit, stand, talk, smile, scowl all morning. I am either perfect or dreadfully out of sorts, usually simultaneously. It's not until Tutti and Lucia get into a shouting match about how much I should swing my hips when I walk that I sit cross-legged on my chair, close my eyes, and try to doze a bit.

The bell rings for lunch and I open my eyes to see Tutti and Lucia departing in a huff. I grab some bites from the table and snack, waiting for Eamon to arrive. I don't have long to wait.

He walks in, dressed in tailored black pants and a deep red shirt that's casually half buttoned. He sits down on the couch opposite me. Gone is the raging man from last night. He smiles at me and casually tosses a small jar up and down in one hand. Despite myself, I have to admire his demeanor of cool self-assurance, as well as his well-kept good looks and benevolent gaze. He's looking at me like I'm a favorite nephew, ignoring the fact that our mutual loathing is threatening to smother us both.

"You've given me quite a problem, Mr. Gavin."

"I'm exceptionally glad to hear it."

"No doubt." He flashes me a smile. "I thought that we had everything figured out. You enter the arena. You make it as far as you can on your own. You make no impression on anyone due to your carefully maintained mediocracy. You die. I become rich. This was the agreement, wasn't it.?"

"I don't recall all the details."

"And yet, despite my best laid plans, you've managed to put a knot in it all. Not a very big one, but still, troublesome. Your costume - not your fault of course, but still. Your display on that animal during the parade. Your exceedingly high training score. The highest 7 has achieved since Jules, I believe."

He toys with the jar in his hand. "And now, I'm being approached by Capitol patrons all wanting to sponsor you. One or two of them, I wouldn't mind because then I could still ignore you in the arena and claim insufficient funds. But you have dozens of willing sponsors. Dozens. And many of them are powerful. Which puts me in a terrible position. If you don't die quickly, I will simply have to send you gifts. Which is contrary to my best interests. And if I have to send you gifts, I assure you that they will be of no use to you. And that I will do my best to make your time in the arena hell."

I listen to all this with an impassive face. I'm pleased to know that I've given my mentor so much difficulty, but his threats are mostly empty bluster. What is he going to do? He's already determined to cut me off in the arena.

Eamon seems to realize this and opens the jar. He stands and walks towards me. "Do you know what this is, Blight?"

"Shaving cream?"

"Bruise balm. One of the Capitol's medical miracles. You only need to apply a dab onto any bruise and it vanishes within minutes. Very useful. Very valuable."

He towers over me. "That's lovely, but why should it concern me now-"

My words are cut off as Eamon strikes me across the face.

I tumble from the chair, unprepared for the blow. Before I can rise, Eamon's foot makes contact with my side and I'm hurled against the wall.

"You filthy, stupid disease of a boy..."

He hauls me up and strikes my face. Again. And again. He kicks my chest when I'm down, grabs me by the collar and smashes me against the wall. Harder. And harder.

"You think you can get the best of me? You think you can outsmart me, dirty little elf?"

I'm dizzy and bleeding and everything hurts. I'm no weakling, but Eamon is far stronger than I am and has at least seventy pounds on me. I make a cursory struggle and then surrender to the inevitable.

"You're going to die, and I'm going to laugh, and no one is going to mourn you except that fat bitch who does your hair so pretty."

The blows seem to be coming from farther away. They don't hurt as much. I vaguely recognize that I'm lying on the ground on my side. Something heavy lands next to me on the carpet.

"Clean yourself up, boy. You need to look good for the interview tomorrow." Heavy footsteps. Then silence.

I don't know how long I stay there, staring at the floor. Eventually my hand finds the jar of bruise balm. I begin a slow, painful crawl back to my room where I can begin to piece myself together.

_My name is Blight Gavin._

Hand over hand. I struggle to my hands and knees.

_I am the male tribute from District 7. I am going into the Hunger Games._

With a massive effort I struggle to my feet. No sound escapes my lips.

_My father volunteered me. My brothers and their friends want to see me die. My whole district is betting against me_.

I use the wall to support myself as I make my way out of the sitting room.

_My mother is alive. I will come back to her._

I reach the door of my room.

_Madame Lucia is my friend. I will come back to her._

I stumble inside.

_A man named Jason loves me. I love him. I will come back to him._

I collapse onto my bed.

_I am the Victor of the Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games._


	11. Chapter 11

Jason:

There was supposed to be no work today. With the interviews tonight, everyone was given a holiday to sleep in and prepare for our second view of the tributes since the reaping. It didn't really make a difference to the village. The teams went out regardless and spent the morning bringing down trees. The Peacekeepers didn't stop us; in fact, they encourage it. What are they going to tell the Capitol? "District 7 is sowing seeds of rebellion by working extra shifts on their days off!" It sounds ridiculous in my head and probably even more so in theirs. Besides, everyone knows that District 7 has a reputation to maintain, as one of the most loyal and productive districts in Panem. It's how we maintain our special privileges, like the hunting licenses and permission to keep the Tav open.

I work with a new crew this morning, for which I am grateful. I'm sure Mack had something to do with it, and I'm not going to argue. The thought of having to work with Abel and Jonel and the lot like I have for the past five years is enough to make feel ill with anger and shame. Anger at what I heard them say in the Tav about Blight. Shame for contributing to Blight's situation in small and unnoticeable ways for all those years.

So I keep my mouth shut and communicate with my new crew with only head nods and the occasional grunt. They in turn figure out that I'm not much of a talker and that I obey orders without fuss, so it works out well. The work takes concentration and constant teamwork, so I'm able to ignore the dirty looks and occasional words that come over from Abel's crew. I couldn't help but get a good look at Abel as we walked out to the camp early this morning, and felt a surge of hot satisfaction that the bruise flowering high on his cheekbone looks just as painful as always.

I catch Mack's eye as he walks past but don't have the time or energy to spare any words. I'm covered in sweat by this time and in the middle off sawing through a thick sycamore with another bloke from the team. I have the feeling that Mack keeps watching me even after I've looked away. I've felt his eyes on me for the past three days, ever since the altercation at the Tav and my terrifying run in with the Peacekeepers. Fortunately, I've been able to keep my promise to him and kept my head down and my mouth shut. It hasn't been easy. The vocal animosity towards Blight has only seemed to intensify in the district since the chariot rides and much of it is now purposefully done in my hearing. I haven't been to the Tav since that night. I watched the training scores in Mack's home with his wife and young children. We hadn't expected there to be much to celebrate either way, just watch the scores and go home, but when Blight tied for the highest score with Link, the tribute from 1, we were stunned. Mack's face was etched with shock, his wife's hands flew to her mouth, and I'm sure I looked no different. That night, we broke out a bottle of wine from the Capitol that Mack and his wife had only ever drunk from on their wedding night.

Tonight, however, I'll be back in the Tav. I'm keeping my promise to watch every moment of the Games with Mack, and he'll be in the Tav tonight to discuss business with Head Peacekeeper Core.

The sycamore comes down and we call the dragging team over. It's still a bit of a jolt to see that four men have to lead the team of horses over, and even then it's difficult for them to keep them under control. The horses have grown used to a slight, dark haired individual leading them with care and intuition, and these rough hands on them are making them skittish. It's not surprising that one of the men mutters, "I never thought I could miss that kid so much."

"We'll find a replacement for him in time," says my new crew leader. "In the meantime, get the beasts hooked up to the log so we can all get home before the sun sets."

"Won't no replacement be able to handle 'em like the kid," the handler says.

"Blight will be back in a few weeks anyways," I say before I can stop myself.

The men all look at me for a moment, and then simultaneously find other fascinating or important things to do or say. I swallow in an attempt to ignore the lump in my throat and help harness the horses to the fallen tree.

I reach home before the sun sets and wash up. I change into clean clothes and head out. Before I leave, I let my mum know where I'm headed and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. She smiles at me to let me know she understands and keeps stitching the golden and silver threads into the scarf on her lap in incredibly complex patterns of knotwork. Her work is highly prized in the Capitol and always ensures that my mum will be able to feed herself, even if something ever happened to me.

The Tav is just as loud and crowded as ever. Instead of greeted heartily as I have been, I'm generally ignored by the crowd as I make my way between the tables. Apparently the fact that I punched Abel and shouted my drunken support of his brother has not been well received here. I see Mack at the bar and make my way towards him. There's an empty stool between him and his tiny wife Evelyn. I order a pint from the barmaid, who slams it down in front of me and stalks off to the table of honor where Blight's father and brothers hold court. I feel a soft pressure on my knee and turn to see Evelyn giving me a sad smile. Mack turns from his conversation with the Head Peacekeeper to give me a nod. I raise my pint to him and catch the eye of Core. He nods as well and turns back to Mack just as the televisions flicker on.

"It's starting! It's starting!"

The conversation dies down quickly as all eyes, district and Peacekeeper, focus towards the screens. The two freakish commentators, Antonia and Antonius, are already giggling and exchanging pleasantries. Behind them, the massive stage in the City Circle is lit with a million bright lights in all shades of color. Thousands upon thousands of Capitol citizens are packed into the stands. Others fill the balconies. The screens show that the side streets are filled with people as well, all pressing forward, trying to get as close to the City Circle as possible.

I grip the edge of the bar to hide my nervousness. The interviews could mean everything to Blight. They're a chance for the Capitol to see the tributes and choose who to support. But I feel like I know Blight. His reputation for antagonizing those he dislikes is well deserved. How will he react to these thousands of people who are all clamoring to see him and the others thrown into the arena? I close my eyes and send a quick prayer to all the gods I can think of that Blight is foresighted enough to know to play the crowd. He can do this. I know he can.

Caesar Flickerman, the man who's conducted the Hunger Games interviews for nearly twenty years, rises from below the stage to enormous applause. He's wearing his trademark midnight-blue suit that twinkles with tiny lights. His hair and lips are done up in streaked silver and black. He smiles at the crowd, raises his hands, basks in the applause and screams pouring from the crowds assembled below him.

"Ladies and gentleman! Welcome to the final interviews of the Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games!" Huge applause. The cameras sweep the crowd, taking in the Gamemakers in their private balcony, the President and his entourage from their viewing box above the stands, the stylists in the front row. They show the special section reserved for past Victors as well. Brutus is pumping his fist in the air, Cora blows kisses to the cameras. Haymitch, the eighteen year old who was nearly killed by my cousin Cameron is slouching in his seat, a bottle in his hand.

"And now, for the reason we're all here. Are you ready to meet your tributes?" A great cheer rises. "And here they are! Alabastar! Link! Plautia! Quintus! Kira! Chip! Tara! Romani! Caraway! Cole! Reesa! Owen! Charlotte! Blight! Qin Li! Tune! Bobbi! Monaghan! Clare! Devon! Robin! Sower! Doralie! Aaaaand Rie!

One by one, the tributes enter as their names are shouted out. There are cheers for the favorites, boos for those who are disliked or received low training scores. Charlie enters, dressed in a black gown with shimmering silver accents. The gossamer wings from the parade are attached to her back. She receives a loud cheer, at which she tosses her hair behind her shoulder and lowers her eyes bashfully. And then Blight comes out, and the crowd roars. His stylist is still going with the tree-elf theme, but again she's made the concept attractive instead of one of ridicule. Blight is wearing his pointed ears and the shimmering symbols are again painted on his bare arms. But instead of the leafy pants, he's dressed in form-fitting black leather boots, pants and sleeveless jacket. Silver bracelets shaped like serpents wrap around his arms and another serpent coils around his brow, making a sort of crown. Ornamental silver knives hang at his waist. The crowd loves it, screaming his name. Blight flashes a smile at them and takes his seat. A surge of pride wells up in me. He knows what he's doing, my little tree-elf.

The interviews begin in earnest. Each one lasts only three minutes, with occasional breaks for Caesar Flickerman to receive refreshment and take a break, during which time Antonia and Antonius gush over each interview. Most tributes are working an angle to make themselves memorable to the audience. Either that or they just sit in the chair and shiver in fear, like the thirteen year old girl from 3 who can barely string two words together. The girl from 1 starts the interviews, and predictably she's sultry and lush. It's never any different from year to year, but District 1 knows what the crowd likes and provides it without fail. The boy from 1, Link, is one of the cockiest, most self-absorbed individuals I have ever seen, which is saying something considering that I went to school in the same class as Connell and Tobin.

The interviews flash by. Plautia is a crowd favorite, turning everything that Caesar says into a snarky joke reflecting back on her fellow tributes, especially the other Careers. Quintus doesn't say much. He mainly just sits in his chair and flexes. Which, I suppose, says a lot more about his strength in the arena than any words could. 3 and 4 pass, then 5. The girl from 5 delivers a heartfelt speech about how she's going to fight with all she has to go home to the ailing mother who needs her. She has the audience in tears by the end. 6 comes and goes, and then it's time for 7. The Tav goes silent as Charlie stands and comes down to where Caesar is waiting. She bows her head demurely, then looks up and gives Caesar a radiant smile. Caesar pats his hand against his heart as if he's about to swoon. Charlie laughs and puts a hand on his arm and just like that they have the crowd enthralled.

"So, Charlie, it's obviously been quite a week for you. Is there anything that sticks out in your mind from your time here in the Capitol?"

Charlie bats her eyelashes at him, "Oh, so much Caesar. The people especially. Everyone here has been just so kind to us. It's a bit overwhelming for such an ordinary girl from District 7." Enormous applause.

Charlie's interview continues in this vein for the remainder of her time. She plays it excellently, remaining humbled and overawed by her experience here, blushing on cue when Caesar mentions how many young Capitol men must already be in love with her. She's at one and the same more beautiful and more genuine than Alabaster, the District 1 tribute who played up the heart-breaker image. Her mentor played her exactly right, she's won over the crowd pretty well by the time her buzzer sounds.

"Well, Charlotte, that's all the time we have, but I'm sure I'm not alone when I wish you all the best of luck in the arena!" Charlie leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek as the crowd cheers and Caesar's hand clasps his chest.

Charlie returns to her seat, passing Blight on the way. It's Blight's turn now. I can't take my eyes off him. _Please, Blight,_ I think to myself. _Please learn from Charlie. Make them remember you._

"Well, Blight Gavin, a pleasure to have you here!"

"The pleasure, Caesar, is all mine."

"And how are you enjoying the Capitol thus far?"

Blight's grinning eyes dart over the Capitol crowd and then he leans into Caesar. "The Capitol is wonderful, Caesar, but my time here hasn't answered my deepest question. What do you do with all the wood?"

Caesar is taken aback. "The...wood?"

"The wood! From District 7! Where does it all go? We bring down dozens of trees a day, but the buildings here are all stone and metal!"

Caesar and the audience laughs. "It's made into furniture and paper of course! My apartment is paneled with the finest dark walnut straight from your district."

"Oh," Blight looks crestfallen. "I always thought you ate it."

The crowd roars with laughter and Blight gives them an apologetic smile. My fingers, clenched around my pint begin to relax. Blight knows what he's doing. He hasn't lost that cutting wit, or that sarcastic streak that he was so known for in the district. He's just turned it back onto himself. And the crowd loves it.

"Now, Blight, you're to be congratulated as well! You scored the highest in training, tying with young Link back there." The camera flashes to the male tribute from District 1, who is folding his arms and scowling. "Do you think this will reflect on what we can expect from you in the arena?"

"Of course, Caesar!" Blight folds his arms and grins. "However, I feel as though my skills will only be adequately showcased if the arena is a large empty room filled with blue practice dummies. I've put in a formal request with the Gamemakers and I fully expect the arena will be renovated per my instructions."

Caesar is chuckling now, and the crowd has kept up a running laugh. Blight winks at the Gamemakers in their private balcony, and the camera pans to show them in peals of laughter. There must be some inside joke between them.

Mack shifts besides me. "That's my boy," he says softly.

On his other side, Head Peacekeeper Core nods slowly. "The lad is doing very well," he says in his soft, deep voice.

"Well, Blight, your district must be proud of you. Can you tell us about your friends and family back home?"

"My friends and family can all be described simply as 'very special.' Some more so than others." He looks into the camera. "Right, Connell?"

There are a few muffled chuckles around the Tav, but everyone's eyes dart to Connell, who's just spilt his pint and is glaring at the screen, looking murderous. I smirk to myself and look back to Blight, who looks extremely satisfied with himself.

"Now, tell us about the Reaping. You volunteered, and the crowd loved you! They were the ones cheering your nickname, right? The one that you're stylist has so dynamically brought to life. Blight the Tree-Elf!"

I want to bury my face in my hands. Mack utters a soft oath. Why did they have to bring this up? The shameful name that we've all given Blight for how many years. Whatever happens, he can't - he can't - tell them what it really means, or he'll lose all support.

Blight's smile has cracked. He looks a bit off guard. "They...um...actually, Caesar, they weren't cheering me on."

My stomach has turned to ice. What are you doing Blight?"

"Really? There must be a mistake! We all heard them, didn't we?" He addresses the audience, who gives a loud cheer. Blight, however, doesn't smile. A visible flush has crept up his neck.

"Tree-elf...isn't a nice name to call someone. They were laughing really. Laughing at me. In the districts, at least in District 7, it means something very different."

"I see." Caesar's face is sympathetic, comforting. "And can you tell us what it means, Blight?"

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

"It means..." The blush has crept up to his cheeks. "Someone who's, you know, preferences are different. It means a man who…prefers men."

And now the audience is silent and Caesar has laid a hand on Blight's shoulder. "I see. But the Capitol isn't District 7, Blight Gavin. And this isn't a time to hide who you really are. You might be surprised. So tell us. Are you a tree-elf?"

Blight. Don't.

Blight looks Caesar straight in the eyes and says, "Yes Caesar, I am."

There is just enough time for a few gasps and words from the watchers in the Tav before the entire Capitol audience goes mad.

And they don't stop. The buzzer sounds but Caesar's last words can't be heard over the roar of the crowd. The camera pans over thousands of whooping, cheering people. Stylists are blowing him kisses. Girls with rainbow colored hair are sobbing on each other's shoulders. Blight's face is utterly bemused as the crowds begin to chant "Blight! Blight! Blight!" and "Tree-Elf! Tree-Elf! Tree-Elf!" And here the words are not of mockery and hatred, but of admiration. Of respect. Of the courage that it took for Blight to not hide himself from the entire nation. The screens around the City Circle start flashing Blight's name over and over again, along with the clip of him leaping onto the runaway stallion during the Tribute Parade.

I'm so proud of him. I would have never had the guts to do what he just did. And, to the district's utter disbelief, it paid off. My stomach seems to have thawed out, and now feels like its harboring a hot coal. I like the feeling. I hardly even notice the bitter words and angry names that are coming from the table where Blight's family sits, and I couldn't care less. He outsmarted them all.

Caesar signals that it's time for a break since the interviews have reached the halfway point. But the crowd doesn't want to stop cheering. He speaks into the microphone, stating that it seems that Blight Gavin may have just gained a few more dedicated sponsors, and the crowd roars. The camera pans to Blight, who's grinning sheepishly as Charlie laughs next to him. He looks down the row of tributes, and strangely the boy from District 10 gives him a thumbs up. On his other side, I can't help seeing Link glare at Blight with anger. There's something that eerily reminds me of Abel in the look in his eyes.

Caesar finally gets his break and Antonia and Antonius begin a quick commentary on the first twelve interviews. Antonia seems strangely out of sorts, her words are muffled and she continuously wipes her eyes. Antonius finally asks her what's wrong and she says, "It's just that, Blight Gavin, he was...he's so handsome! And clever and so brave during the parade! And...and...and now he's off the market!" And with that she buries her head in her arms and sobs.

"Not for me!" says Antonius.

"Hit him, Antonia," I mutter into my pint. I'm very satisfied when she does.

Mack looks at me, then at Core, then back at me, and finally bursts out, "Did Blight just become a gay icon?"

It's the first time I've laughed since the Reaping, and I don't stop for a long, long time.


	12. Chapter 12

Blight:

I mostly tune out the rest of the interviews. I sit in my chair, blank-faced, numb, as Qin Li chats animatedly to Caesar Flickerman. The last hurdle between me and the Hunger Games is gone. Gone. Tomorrow morning, I will not be wearing this costume with its shimmering symbols and silver armbands. I'll be in the arena. Facing these beautiful, deadly girls and strong, desperate boys in a battle to our deaths. It has never felt more real than it does right now. I find myself clenching and unclenching my hand, wishing for the reassuring feel of Jason's coin. But I gave it to Madame Lucia this morning so that she can get it approved by the Gamemakers by tomorrow.

The interviews pass in a blur. I shake myself out of my reverie as Devon steps up to the stage. I have to bite back a laugh as Caesar Flickerman can hardly get in a word edgewise. Devon is yapping away in that peculiar drawl from District 10, acting like the big goofball, explaining how the Games won't be any more different from wrangling wayward steers back home. He manages to get in a few words about his girl, letting her know that he's coming back for her, and a few sniffs and sighs come from the audience. I wish I had had the opportunity to do the same for Jason. To let him know that the angry boy in the Justice Building was wrong. To tell that I'm fighting for him. But I didn't have the chance and it's too late now. Maybe it's better this way. I can tell him when I get home.

The last interview ends, the boy from 12 visibly shaking throughout all of it. The national anthem plays. We all stand and raise our heads respectfully. I can see President Snow in his private box, self-satisfied smile on his face as he basks in the cheers of the adoring crowd. I hide my feeling of revulsion and try to find my mother behind him. No luck. Either she's hidden by more favored concubines or she's not here tonight.

The tributes file off the stage to thunderous applause and I take Charlie's hand and lead her to the waiting cars. We ride together without speaking, her head resting on my shoulder as I caress her soft brown hair. Our last moments of peace. Our last moments of friendship. We reach the Training Center and take the lift up. The doors don't manage to shut before Devon and his tiny district partner squeeze in as well. Devon grins down at me.

"Dude, you were amazing! You were all like, 'yeah I'm awesome,' and Caesar was all like, 'yeah you're pretty awesome,' and then you were like, 'just wait for the Games, y'all see my skills,' and then you were like 'yeah I'm a tree-elf and you can all go screw yourselves if you got a problem with it!' And the crowd was all like, 'Yeehaw, yeah Blight!'

I'm grinning in spite of myself as Devon goes on. Charlie laughs and then looks down at his district partner. "You did very well yourself, Clare!"

Clare gives her a watery smile that clearly indicates that she's trying to hold back her tears. Devon turns away from her, looking uncomfortable. I catch his eye and mouth the word "Ally?" He shakes his head and looks away. I know what he's saying. Trying to take care of a thirteen-year-old girl in the middle of the Hunger Games is a death sentence. And despite his kind heart, I know Devon will do whatever he must to get back home. Including abandoning his district partner to her fate. As I will abandon Charlie.

We reach the seventh floor. Devon reaches out to shake my hand. "I'll see you at the Cornucopia tomorrow," he says. Then he looks at Charlie, takes her hand, and says "May I?" She has time for one look of confusion before he kisses her gently on the mouth. Both of them go red. "You look...like her. So much. I just wanted to remember..." And then the doors have shut and Charlie's hand is still touching her mouth. But we don't have time for this anymore. I take her by the hand and look her straight in the eye.

"Tomorrow, and the days after," I begin.

"If it comes down to the two of us and it looks like you can win," she continues.

"I'll kill you," I say. "And if it comes down to the two of us and it looks like you can win."

"I'll kill you," she whispers. And that's all that we have time for before the doors to the lift open and a rush of people soar out.

Charlie is engulfed by her prep team and her stylist. I too don't have time to think before Poppaea is swooping down on me screeching, "Honey, you a' done so FINE!" Romulus and Remus have both kissed me on the cheek. Then they switch and kiss the other cheek. Then they switch and kiss the first cheek again. Then they fortunately are shooed away by Madame Lucia, who is all done up in her trademark silver, waving her fan at them.

She looks at me, and takes my face in her hands. "Madame Lucia is so proud of you, my child," she says. I let myself be buried in her embrace. She breaks away as Tutti Marble kisses the top of my head and thanks me for being her most exciting tribute in years. Finally Vera is shouting that it's time for last minute strategy conferences with the mentors. The floor quickly empties, I give Charlie's hand one last squeeze and tell her that I'll see her tomorrow, and then Vera whisks her off to her room, leaving me alone with Eamon.

He's drunk. Considerably. Still handsome and strong, but I get the feeling that if he attacks me again, this time I'll be able to hold my own. Instead, he eyes me like a pack of wolves eyes a moose, trying to see if it's worth the risk. I don't say anything. There's nothing left to say between the two of us. It occurs to me that if I ever see this man again, it will be because I'm a Victor. The thought is comforting either way.

"Get to bed, Blight. You have a big day tomorrow."

"You as well. Enjoy the show."

"I will. Die well."

"I will."

"Before you sleep though, there is one more piece of protocol to follow." He leads me to the dining room table where a blank piece of paper and a pen have been laid out. I look at my mentor in confusion. "Tributes are permitted to write one letter home to a loved one before they go into the arena. When you die, it's sent back to your district."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Really? Why have I never heard of this?"

"It's not generally known. The Capitol uses the letters to know whom to interview if you make it into the final eight. Well, good night Blight. Happy Hunger Games." He bows slightly with his palms raised up. It's a gesture in our district used as a sign of respect, of greeting an equal or a worthy superior. I'm not sure whether it's meant to be mocking or not, but it doesn't really matter, as Eamon takes this moment to leave the dining room and walk out of my life forever.

Fifteen minutes pass as I stare at the blank sheet of paper. I am utterly at a loss at what to write, at how to say my last goodbye. I know I cannot write to my mother, as an Avox receiving a letter from a tribute would only endanger her. That leaves only one other person. But what to say?...

Another fifteen minutes pass. Then another. I've been sitting at the table for nearly an hour, knowing how desperately I need to get to bed. I finally write the letter and leave it on the table. I crawl into bed and despite my belief that I will get no sleep tonight I drift off almost immediately, my final thoughts on the piece of paper on the table, and its short message.

_Dear Jason,_

_I don't really think you're a bastard._

_Blight_

""""""""""""

_I'm racing through the swamp, my breath coming in great gasps, my hand clutching my side. I've been in the arena for nearly three weeks, breathing in the hot, muggy air every minute of my time through this hellish place. My leg bleeds from the attack I barely escaped from, trying not to remember how the alligator mutts ripped the skin and muscle in my leg to shreds._

_I take a short break, trying to catch my breath. And then I see him. The boy from District 2. Brutus. With the ax. I try to scream but no words come out. I raise my hand in a futile attempt to protect myself, but my palms are simply sliced clean off as the axe comes down into my head-_

I wake up, struggling in my sheets. My body is covered in sweat. Just a dream. Just a nightmare. One of many tonight.

I lay back in the covers, trying to remind myself that I am Blight Gavin, not the boy from District 5 that Brutus eviscerated a few years back. It's no use trying to sleep, and I have to sleep. There's no telling what will happen if I go into the arena tomorrow exhausted.

But the nightmares won't stop. Sometimes I'm fighting Cora in the red rock labyrinth, trying to avoid her knives. Or I'm in the Quarter Quell arena from two years ago, being eaten by carnivorous squirrels as Haymitch looks on. On and on and on it goes.

I decide to take a bit of a walk, try to shake the nightmares off. I walk out of my room, heading for the kitchen when I hear the crying. I pause and try to make a discrete exit, not wanting to disturb Charlie. But then I realize that it can't be her. I've heard Charlie cry before, and it's not like this. It's too high. Too simpering. Too...devastated.

My curiosity gets the better of me and I make my way into the sitting room. The screen is playing Charlie's interview. She looks beautiful as she kisses Caesar's cheek and makes her way to her chair. Then the screen freezes, reverses, and starts from the beginning of her interview. And there watching, sitting in the soft white couch, is Vera.

I quickly move back towards the kitchen but she seems to sense my presence and turns. Her unnatural purple eyes are red and puffy. A full glass of liquor sits untouched in her hand. "Oh, Blight," she says. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I was already up," I say and cross the room. Sitting next to her, I look up at Charlie at the screen. "She's beautiful," I say. "She's got a lot of support. You might actually be bringing home a tribute this year, Vera."

Vera sniffs. "No, Blight, I will be returning to District 7 alone." I look at her with shock. I knew obviously that Eamon wasn't making any effort for me, but Vera always seemed so invested in Charlie. Deeply invested. I can't believe she's writing her tribute off before the Games have even begun.

Vera must sense my animosity because she wipes her nose on a silk handkerchief and begins to explain. "I've seen a lot of Games, Blight. And a lot of tributes. After doing this for thirty years, well, let's just say that I get an idea of who has a chance and who doesn't. Charlie is a lovely girl. Lovely. But she's not a killer. And she never will be. She might last a while. May even make it to the final eight. But when it comes to that moment, to that time when she must not hesitate to take another life, I know she will. And I know it will cost her everything."

I look again at the screen, and realize why Vera is watching this again and again. So that she can remember Charlie as she was. A stunning, lovely girl. Not one more dead tribute in the arena.

I feel Vera take my hand in hers. "But you, Blight," she says. "You have a real chance at this. A real chance. You're brave. You have endured hardship. You know what it means to protect yourself at any cost. And what you did tonight at the interviews was a masterstroke." I look at her in confusion. I wasn't trying to be strategic. I was just doing what Devon said. Being myself in the time I have left. But Vera continues. "There are many people like you in the Capitol. Tree-elves, so to speak. Stylists, Gamemakers, politicians, the extremely wealthy. They now see you as a mascot so to speak. Their representative in the Games. And they will want to protect you."

I want nothing more than to go to bed. Because Vera's words make sense. And the last thing I want to do is give myself more hope than I should have. I rise to leave, and I think Vera understands, because she gives my hand one last squeeze before I leave. I return to my room climb in bed, and let sleep take me.

I lay there, waiting for the nightmares to come, but to my surprise I open my eyes and find that dawn is breaking and an Avox is knocking at my door. A million thoughts crowd into my mind as I realize that this is the day of the Games, but I push them down. Thoughts of Madame Lucia, Jason, my mother will only be a distraction right now. I will go into this with one focus. Living to see the sunset. And then I can begin focusing on living to see the sunrise.

After taking a brief shower, I walk out of the room for the last time. I am taken to the roof, where Madame Lucia is waiting for me. Vera and Eamon are at the Command Center where they will spend the duration of the Games, or until their tribute dies. Gloudus isn't present, so I'm guessing that Charlie has already left. We don't speak. A hovercraft appears suddenly overhead. A ladder drops down and I take hold of it, finding that a sort of current runs through it, locking me to the rung I am holding. I am unable to move until I reach the interior of the hovercraft. I look down at the Capitol far below and see that Madame Lucia is following on her own ladder, looking like she swings hundreds of meters above the ground every day. I suppress a smile.

Breakfast is laid out on the hovercraft as the windows are dimmed so that we can't see where we're going. I don't think I can eat a bite, but Madame Lucia stands over me, scolding me until I've eaten what she thinks is a suitable amount. She's right; I need to prepare my body with as much nutrition and hydration as possible before the arena, because there might be none available there. Even so, the good food tastes like mud in my mouth.

A sharp pain registers in my left arm, and I want to jerk away and shout that I'm not in the arena yet, they can't hurt me yet, but it's just a Capitol medic inserting my tracker into my arm. So they don't lose me in the arena. I'm rubbing the lump when I realize that the hovercraft has stopped. We're at the arena.

I'm lowered down into the catacombs beneath the arena. The Stockyard, as it's called in the district. Where the condemned await their deaths. The reference must seem especially appropriate to Devon and the rest of District 10. It's just a plain cement room with a table at one end holding more food. At the other end is the metal plate that I will stand on as I rise to the arena above.

I manage to drink a couple of glasses of water and a meat pastry in the dark room as Madame Lucia disappears for a moment. She returns with a package containing the clothes that I will wear in the arena. As she helps me into them, I note that they're similar to the costume that I wore last night during the interviews. Form fitting black pants made of a synthetic material. Black t-shirt. Synthetic black jacket. Fingerless gloves. Black boots with a good tread.

I pause after I lace them up. I feel as though I'm missing something. But then Madame Lucia produces a cloth package made of shimmersilk. She unwraps it and picks up a black leather band with a buckle. Fastened in silver in the center is the wooden coin with the etching of a rearing horse. My token. My piece of home. The coin itself to remind me of Jason. The silver fittings to remind me of Madame Lucia. The leaves pressed into the soft leather to remind me of District 7. It's a beautiful thing. I look at Lucia and find I have no words to thank her, but she knows exactly what doesn't need to be said.

"So you remember why you're here," she says as she fastens it around my waist. Then she turns and removes something else from the folds of her silver robe. She faces me and brushes my cheek with several short strokes. She holds up a tiny mirror and shows me that there is a small shimmering symbol on my cheek. "So that you remember who you are."

A cool female voice announces that it's time for the tributes to mount their plates. Lucia leads me over to the metal plate and takes my hand as I step up. Before I'm cut off by the glass tube, she takes my head in her hands and kisses my forehead.

"Gods all bless, my little tree-elf." And then she's behind the glass and I'm rising on my platform.

I'm underground. Cut off from the world. Waiting for it to begin.

I am in the stables, just me and the horses, alone and happy.

I am racing through the woods with Jonel and Abel, in happier times years ago, when I wasn't a dirty elf and my family was whole.

I'm up in a tree in District 7, where I belong.

And then in no time at all I'm blinking in the bright sunlight.

The light is gleaming off the golden cornucopia. The air is filled with the sound of soft waves. The tributes are arranged in a semi-circle around the Cornucopia. Plautia is standing on my left side. She is viewing the arena with an open mouth. Gaping in disbelief.

And then I find myself taking in the arena for the first time. I know instantly that it is not a dream. Or a story. I know where I am. I know exactly where I am. And for a moment, I'm a tiny boy in a cabin in District 7, listening to my mother's bedtime tales.

_"Mom, is the Giants' City real? Does it actually exist?"_

_"It's real if you believe it's real, sweetheart."_

Oh, Jason. I am in Hell.


	13. Chapter 13

Jason:

The sun peaks over the horizon. District 7 comes slowly alive, as the mockingjays outside my window begin to sing and a few children move quietly outside, finishing last-minute chores or taking advantage of their parents sleeping in. There is no work today, and no one will go to the camps, seeing as how mandatory viewing will start at eleven and last for much of the day. Sensible people take the opportunity to sleep in while they have the chance. Meanwhile I lay in my cot, not feeling the soft straw on my back, staring at the ceiling as I have been for hours. It's today.

By now Blight is on the way to the arena. In a matter of hours the Games will start. He could be dead in a matter of minutes after that. I remember the two tributes from last year from our district. A terribly unlucky year when two twelve-year-olds from the Community Home were chosen. The Community Home kids take out more tesserae than the rest of the district combined. The Careers last year were particularly brutal, probably to make up for the shame of losing the Quarter Quell to District 12 the year before. The boy made it about twenty yards off the plate before he was cut down by a Career. The girl made it five.

When I remember it now, the tributes both have Blight's face.

I get up with the sun, coming to the realization that I won't be getting any more rest. I dress and wash up quietly, trying not to wake my mother. She insists that I have the only cot since I'm the one who works hard manual labor. She usually falls asleep in the common room by the television, her stitching still resting on her lap. In a few hours, she'll be joined by her friends to watch the Games. She'll be safe here.

I leave the house and begin wandering the streets of the village. The few passerby who are up at this hour ignore me, as do the Peacekeepers. I'm grateful, as I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone. I'm dreading eleven, dreading the moment I have to sit in the Tav and begin a perpetual nightmare. And it's not only Blight's life in danger. If he falls, the whole district could go up in smoke. An example, because of those stupid bets. We know that the Capitol is capable of such a thing. We've all seen what happened to District 13.

I'm not entirely surprised when I find that I've come to the stables where the work horses are kept. It's the place where Blight's presence is the strongest, the place that was solely his. The doors are unlocked, so I slip in unnoticed. The horses are awake. The lively stallions that the Peacekeepers ride when they monitor us in the forests wicker softly at me, as if they're offended by my intrusion. The draft horses, bigger built and less spritely, raise their heads to observe me and then go back to nipping the hay. I go to the wall and take a grooming brush in my hands. I find the gelding that I brushed down the last time I talked to Blight on the afternoon before he was reaped. Long, slow strokes, just as he showed me. I try to remember that moment, how we laughed and joked in the slanted sunlight, almost as if we were friends. Good friends. My brush pauses, and the gelding turns its head to look at me.

"I bet you miss him, don't you mate?" I whisper to the beast. He gives a soft whinny in reply, which somehow sounds sympathetic. "Yeah I miss him too."

One of the Peacekeeper's stallions brays out, sounding agitated. "Yeah I'll get to you next." The stallion stamps the floor, shaking its head. I step out of the stall to see what the problem is when I catch a sandy haired head duck behind the door. I wait for a moment, and then see two brown eyes peek out, then duck back away quickly.

"It's no use hiding, I've already seen you," I say, trying to sound stern. "Come out of there right now. It's not safe to hide in a stall with a frisky horse."

The head pops back out, and a young boy, not older than thirteen emerges. He's followed by a tiny girl, and then by five or six other young lads and lasses, all staring determinately at the floor.

"Are we going to get in trouble?"

"Well, that depends. Are you doing something wrong?" I recognize the first boy, the one who looks like the oldest, but I can't place him. "What's your name, kid?"

"Merrill Mason," he says, and then I recognize him. The thirteen year old that Blight volunteered for at the Reaping.

"What are you doing here, Merrill Mason?"

His jaw sticks out defiantly. "We're taking care of the horses. Until Blight gets back. And you can say anything you want, just like the rest of the District, but Blight is coming back, and when he does you'll all be sorry you ever laughed at him, you, you ,you lumberjack!"

I sigh and go back into the stall. I pick up the brush and continue rubbing down my gelding. "Well then, you better get working if we want to finish this by mandatory viewing."

The kid looks at me in disbelief. "So...we're not in trouble."

I look him right in the eye. "Blight is my friend too."

With the kids helping - actually they do most of the work, their nimble, experienced fingers move far faster than mine - we brush down the rest of the horses. It's actually soothing, being there with the animals, concentrating on the job. We finish, and return the grooming tools to the wall just as the clock on the Justice Building chimes ten.

"You better get home," I tell the kids, who mostly scamper. Merrill takes a moment to say good bye to the stallion. I see his toddling little sister, Johanna, who's too young to help out still. She's sitting outside with a kindling ax in her hands, tossing it at a tree, trying to get it to stick. I walk over to her and lean down.

"Hey there, sweetheart. That's a scary toy for a little girl like you to be playing with. Why don't you hand that to me and go fetch your big brother?"

She looks up at me with big, innocent brown eyes. "Screw off, lumber ass."

I can take a hint.

I send Merrill and Johanna on their way and head home. Wash the scent of horse off my body with the tepid water from the tap. Throw on a clean shirt, which my mother insists I always have a supply of. Say goodbye in the doorway as she chats animatedly with her friends. Leave and head towards the center of town.

The Tav is packed. Even more so than the Opening Ceremonies or the interviews. Despite myself, I look towards the head table, where Blight's father, Abel, Jonel, Connell, Tobin, Ram, Ercole and the others are sitting. They're chatting amongst themselves. Excited. Invigorated. Looking eagerly towards the blank screens, waiting for them to switch on. Jono flits between the tables, citing the odds and collecting last minute bets. A hand rests on my shoulder. Mack. He leads me firmly towards a large table near the back, but still close enough to one of the screens to not miss anything. Much of the table is occupied. Mack and his wife Evelyn. Head Peacekeeper Core. The head of the hunting licensing office. Reuben, the chief foreman of the lumber teams and Mack's boss. A woman named Greta whom I recognize as having a bad reputation, using her body to earn warm nights and sesterces from the Peacekeepers. It's an odd bunch. And something about the way they've all met here seems rather...clandestine.

I sit between Mack and Greta, who to my surprise pulls two more chairs out and sets them between us. I'm about to ask who she's waiting for when two figures sit down and one of them has wrapped her arms around me.

"Oh, Jason. We came as soon as we could."

I stare at my sister Lees and her husband in disbelief. "Lees! Camden! What are you two doing here?"

"We came for you, Jason. You need your family with you. I mean, first Cameron and now..."

"Wait." I look at her in shock. "You, you knew?"

She laughs. "I've known for years, baby brother. And then Mack told us about Blight, not everything, but enough for me to guess. Camden and I decided that you could use all the support you could get. We're going to get you through this, bro." She lowers her voice. "We also came to help with the evacuation, if things go-"

"Not here," Greta cuts across her. In a louder voice she announces "It's starting!"

Sure enough, the screens have flickered on and Antonius and Antonia are already prattling away. All eyes are drawn to them, all conversation ceases, and Lees takes my hand in her own and squeezes. Mack puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, "Have courage, son." I look over at him in thanks and quickly turn away when I see the unshed tears in his eyes.

A huge crowd is shown in the Capitol, all pressed into the city square. "Ladies and Gentleman! Capitol and Districts! Are you ready for the start of the Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games?" A huge roar greets Antonius's words.

"First, let's get a final look at the betting odds on this year's tributes!" shouts Antonia. The screens around the city flash the tributes faces and the odds in or against their favor. The best odds are towards the Careers, especially Link. Charlie, Blight and Devon match them. The rest are average to low, ending with District 12, who are expected to die in the bloodbath.

"The tributes from 12 never stand a chance," says Greta, mostly to herself.

Lees leans over to her. "They have such a disadvantage. Half of 12 is starving in the streets." Greta looks at her curiously. "Jason and I have relatives in 12," Lees says. I dimly register that she's right, we do. Second cousins or something. I think they run the bakery.

"And now, get ready for your first glimpse of this year's Hunger Games Arena!" The crowd roars in anticipation of seeing what the Gamemakers have prepared for this year. "Ladies and Gentlemen! We proudly present...The Giants' City!"

The screams of the crowd are matched by the gasps around the Tav. The Giants' City. It's supposed to be legend. A bedtime story. There are some people who actually believe that the cities of the ancient Americans still exist, but most people don't take them seriously. Until now.

Antonia and Antonius take the audience on a virtual tour of the arena, projected on the huge screens. It's made up of three main parts. First is the vast freshwater lake that extends beyond what the eye can see. The city sits on the shoreline. It's a tangled web of twisted metal, and huge hills of rubble that a thousand years of erosion and neglect have turned into a bizarre landscape of diseased grasses and worn cement. Some buildings remain standing in quarters or halves, eerie sentinels of the American ghosts. At three points, there are massive towers that soar upwards, so high that they could be mountains in and of themselves. The two farthest ones are black and rectangular, the middle one silver and cylindrical. All around them are the hills and ruins of the once mighty city. You can tell that the maze of stone and metal is just littered with Gamemaker traps. Mutts. Fires. Poisonous gases.

If the tributes manage to escape the city itself, they end up in a vast wasteland to the north and west. The suburbs are nothing more than a few crumbling walls and a couple of shallow hillocks. Sweeping grass and straggled trees gasp for life where the houses once burned before Panem was even founded. Any tribute attempting to flee the dangers of the Giants City will find themselves with no protection, no source of water, and very little food.

They've outdone themselves this year. I couldn't imagine a more hellish place myself.

"I think the tributes are almost ready to begin!" announces Antonia.

The camera zooms over the city to give an aerial view of a large, jutting peninsula. Something about it seems off, it looks too artificial, and then I realize that it's not a peninsula, it's a pier. There's nothing left of the buildings except for the massive cement foundations and rubble. At the near end is an unearthly contraption. It's a massive metal wheel with miniature huts attached at intervals. Bizarrely, it's turning in a slow circle. I can't imagine what it's for. But there at the far end, near the lake, is the golden Cornucopia. It's piled high with supplies, food, water, shelter, medicines, and weapons. The tributes will not have the option to run away. They are arranged in a semicircle between the lake and the Cornucopia. Unless they plan to leap into the forbidding lake, they will have to run to or past the Cornucopia, past the wheel, off the pier and directly into the Giants' City.

The anthem is playing on the screen. The tributes rise from the ground. I look desperately for Blight, but I can only see what the camera chooses to show us. They have sixty seconds to wait before the gong sounds. If they step off the plate too early, they're blown to pieces. The camera shows the tributes one by one. Link. Quintus. Caraway. Charlie! She's poised on her plate, her eyes determined. Chip. Kira. There! There's Blight. His jaw is set, his fists clenched. Despite all my terror and fear, I can't help the thought that flashes through my mind, that this is the handsomest I've ever seen him. And then I see the wooden coin on his belt.

"That's...that's mine! My coin!" How did...? I look at Mack. "It was you! You took it that night! You got it to him! How did you?" Mack doesn't say anything. He just gives me a wink.

Antonius is counting down. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One!" The gong sounds. The Games have begun.

He's so fast! Blight is off his plate in a leap, soaring across the concrete plain, heading towards the Cornucopia. The Tav is roaring, shouting indistinguishable words, and I'm among them, screaming "Go! Go! Go!" The camera cuts away, and I roar in frustration.

Quintus, the massive Career from District 2, intercepts the girl from District 3 as she tries to escape the bloodbath. He's carrying a spear he found near his plate but he doesn't even bother to use it. He picks her up by the neck, carries her to the edge of the pier, and hurls her screaming into the lake. The camera shows only the splash, and I don't think there's a chance of her resurfacing.

Where's Blight? Where is he? Fights have broken out around the Cornucopia as the tributes battle to get to the prime supplies first. Screams rend the area. An aerial shot captures the sheer magnitude of two dozen kids hacking away at each other. And then the camera switches again, as if eager to capture the most exciting action. And then I see him. On top of the Cornucopia.

He's standing on top of the Cornucopia! How did he get up there? And how did he get up so fast? I see the answer in the slender wooden staff in his hand and I can picture him vaulting up to grab the edge of the golden horn and easily swinging up. The staff is held casually in his hand, his eyes sweep the battle below him desperately.

The girl from District 4 has got a hold of a brace of knives and she's eying Blight eagerly, seeing a conspicuous target.

"Gut him!" shouts Abel. "Bring him down!"

Tara can't hear him but she has the same idea. Her knife flies from her hand. Blight doesn't even look her way as he deflects it, on what I can only assumed was the sound alone. The second knife is deflected just as easily. Tara screeches in frustration and throws two more, one right after the other. Blight ducks the first. The second embeds itself in the staff, inches from his face.

Mack is up on his feet, spilling his pint. "That's my boy!" he roars. "That's my boy! District 7!"

Tara realizes that she's losing weapons and that she's left herself open to attack from behind. She breaks away and attempts to track down her allies to watch her back. Blight finally catches sight of who he was looking for and backflips off the Cornucopia, landing lightly on top of the pile of supplies a few feet below. He grabs a massive two handed axe by the handle and tosses it to the boy from District 10. District 10 shouts his thanks and turns his back on Blight. Their strategy is immediately evident. District 10 is free to wield the ax, menacing at anyone who gets too close. Blight, meanwhile, is free to gather supplies from the heart of the Cornucopia without having to watch his back too closely. It's clever. Tara and Quintus have joined up but both of them are wary of challenging these two high scoring tributes without the entire Career pack. They shout for their fellows to join them, but little can be heard above the continuing screams.

Charlie has made it past the Cornucopia, a small backpack in hand. "Bobbi!" she screams. "Qin Li!"

Another scream answers her. Qin Li has fallen, her arm a bleeding mess. Alabaster is advancing on her, wielding a spear. She brings it down just as Charlie hurls her only available weapon, a rock, at the District 1 girl. It catches her on the shoulder and Qin Li is able to roll away in time. Alabaster snarls in fury and bolts towards Charlie, who seems frozen in terror. Again, Alabaster is just upon her when she's tackled by Qin Li's district partner. Alabaster pushes him off, kicks him down, and guts him through the stomach. She sneers at his gurgled screams and then turns towards her other victims, only to find that Charlie, Qin Li, and Bobbi are long gone, running past the metal wheel, miraculously escaping the carnage.

"It's time to go, Blight!" roars District 10. He's right, Alabaster is running to join Tara and Quintus and they'll soon be outnumbered. Blight climbs down from the pile, five backpacks in hand. He hauls them down, weighed down by his burden, but protected by District 10 who is still wielding the massive axe. They back away from the Cornucopia until they've put forty yards between them and the Careers. Then District 10 takes two of the backpacks and they bolt.

Link is waiting for them. He runs out of nowhere, sword in hand, bearing down on Blight who is unknowingly running right towards him. I'm screaming for him to watch out, the Tav is making a crescendo of noise, and then the sword swings and Blight lets himself fall back, his back twisting into an angle that makes mine scream in pain just to see it. The sword swings over him and Blight escapes death by less than an inch. In a moment he's back on his feet and Link has been carried past him by his own momentum. He turns for another attack but has just enough time to duck away as Blight sends the knife that his staff caught at him. It scores a glancing blow to his arm, just enough to draw a considerable bit of blood. Link roars in pain, but Blight and District 10 are already far gone.

"Filthy elf!" he screams.

I fall back against my chair. Blight is alive. He's still alive. He survived the bloodbath. He made it out. Charlie too. A quick view of the Tav shows that the entire building of people is as astonished as I am.

I look back towards my table. Evelyn has buried her face in Mack's shoulders. Core's face is lined and heavy. Greta doesn't try to hide her tears. I register that I've probably broken my sister's hand from gripping it so hard, but she never lets go.

The Career pack have assembled and chosen their weapons. They spread out in a line, blocking escape from the pier. No tribute left has a chance to escape. They fall as they try to flee, caught in the trap. The two tributes from District 12 clasp each other, crying, running blindly towards away from the Cornucopia. Alabaster's spear pierces the girl through the stomach. A moment later, Link decapitates the boy.

The Careers take a moment to pause, breathe, scan the area for anyone still alive. Romani and Tara emerge, holding the struggling form of the girl from District 10. Clare, I think. Thirteen years old.

"Found this one in the horn," says Romani. "Figured we could have a bit of fun with her."

Link leans down and smiles at her. "Yes," he says. "I believe we can. Hold her boys." Quintus and Romani take her arms and stretch them out. Her eyes are filled with terror as tears pour down her face. Alabaster watches with unbridled glee. "Well, where should we start?" he asks. "Smallest parts first I think."

His sword has just moved towards Clare's fingers when she gives a twitch and a shudder, then slumps between Quintus and Romani, dead. A knife buried in her back.

Link roars in anger. "Plautia! She was mine."

Plautia sneers at him. "She's dead either way. We don't have time for this."

Link turns away in disgust as the cannons begin to sound and I can finally begin to breathe again.


	14. Chapter 14

Blight:

Run. Run. Run.

That's what I keep telling myself as I race along the lakeshore, clamoring over piles of rubble or ducking beneath a twisted steel beam that stretches over the ruined road. The faces of the Careers are burned into my mind. Whenever I feel as though I have to stop, whenever the packs feel like they're filled with lead and I fall, ripping my knee open on a sharp piece of the Giants' City, I remember their faces as they cut down my fellow tributes. And when my focus drifts, when I let myself think about something other than the path ahead of me, I can still hear their terrified screams.

But that isn't in my mind. The screams are still echoing across the lake.

To his credit, Devon never pauses and asks for a break, although I know he would like to. He's bigger than I am, and not built to run long distances. Also, from what he's told me, he's spent most of his life on the back of a horse and therefore doesn't have the advantage of building up endurance from long treks through the forest like I have. He's bleeding from the fight at the Cornucopia as well, and his breath is starting to come in ragged gasps. But I don't stop, and he stumbles behind me, trusting me to lead us to safety. Trust. Safety. Two words that have no meaning here in the arena. But he follows anyway and I don't question it.

We make our way between two collapsed buildings, picking our way through the maze of ruins until we come out on the other side. We immediately find ourselves in a dense forest and the sight is so shocking that despite myself I come to a halt. Devon makes a sound of disbelief behind me. It takes a moment of suspended time, in which we don't move a muscle. I know that both of us are imagining what horrors the Gamemakers have stocked the forest with, traps and mutts and who knows what else. Then I remember seeing wide open areas in the Capitol, areas where the trees grew in carefully maintained designs and beds of flowers were arranged in attractive landscapes. Tutti Marble pointed them out as Charlie and I were driven to the Remake Center. She called them 'parks.' Unless I'm mistaken, Devon and I have stumbled onto what happens when a park is left untouched for a thousand years.

I look at Devon and he raises his eyebrows. He's trying to look casual but I can see the fear in his eyes and I know that I must look exactly the same.

"C'mon," I say. "It'll be safe from the Careers at least for the moment."

We traipse our way into the forest, no longer running because the trees are so dense and we need to focus on where we're placing our feet. I can tell that Devon's grateful for the change of pace. I'm suddenly struck by a strong sense of familiarity. Of home. The trees here are different and I'm carrying three backpacks with a bloke who will most likely be dead in a few days, but the feeling is the same. I'm in the trees, where I belong.

"Blight..." I look back. Devon's face is white, and he's clutching his arm, which is bleeding copiously. "Blight, I can't. I have to stop. I can't go any further."

I bite my lip. If I had my choice, I would have put a few more kilometers under our belts before nightfall. I want to put as much space between myself and the Careers as possible. I haven't heard the cannons yet, so the fighting is still going on at the Cornucopia, but it's sure to end soon, and then then Careers will begin sorting the supplies and setting up the camp. And then they'll go hunting. And while it's a big arena, they're sure to begin sweeping the lakeshore first, because as far as I've seen, it's the only source of water. However, as much as I'd like to move on, I owe Devon. He saved my life at the Cornucopia, allowed me to secure these packs that mean our survival. As much as I need to abandon him, I can't until we've divided the supplies between us.

"Hang on mate. Just a bit further. We need to find a place to hide first. Don't want Link and Alabaster and the others stumbling upon us when we're in this condition."

He doesn't respond other than giving a short nod. He starts stumbling forward but I can see his shoulders stoop, his knees start to buckle. I throw his good arm around my shoulder and half guide, half drag him further into the forest.

The gods are with me. Not a hundred yards down we stumble across a wide, shallow stone basin. A massive ornamental pedestal rises from the center. Around the edges are statues of rearing horses, almost as if they were calling the horsemasters - Devon and me. The entirety of the ruined fountain is covered in springy green moss that blends it into the rest of the forest if you stray a few yards away. It's perfect.

I lead Devon into the basin and lay him down on the moss. I open the first pack I'm carrying, only to find that it contains nothing but knives, nearly three dozen of them. I have more luck on the second pack. Inside are bandages and a bottle of anti-infection cream. The Gamemakers are courteous enough to clearly label the bottle. I help Devon take off his leather jacket and roll up the sleeve to show the wound. It's messy but not deep. I clean the gash and then rub some of the cream into the wound and the surrounding flesh. Devon manages to sit still, but a few hisses of pain escape him. His hand is tightly clenched on the locket around his neck as I bandage the wound and sit back to treat my knee. We don't talk until I'm finished and Devon looks at me and says "Water. We need to find water."

I nod to him and he begins to get to his feet before I push him back down. "You rest," I say. "I'll get the water." I take a couple of water bottles from the second pack and a bottle of again clearly labeled iodine to purify it. I climb out of the basin and make my way through the woods in a direction that I hope is east. I barely go fifty yards until I'm at the shore of the lake. I've filled the two bottles and am just dripping iodine in when I hear the cannons.

I freeze, listening to the sound. I've heard the cannons before, all my life, at every single Hunger Games that I've ever watched over the course of my sixteen years, but there's still something about hearing the booms echo across the vast lake that makes them that much more real. Or maybe it's because each one represents someone who's name I knew. Someone who's death brings me closer to home. To Jason, and Lucia, and my mother. It's sick.

I make my way back to the fountain to find that Devon is sitting up, already looking much better. He looks at me eagerly as I approach, and I hand over a bottle of water. Devon is sensible enough not to gulp it down, and so we sit and sip together as we discuss what we've heard, Devon having recovered his love of talking.

"The cannons...you heard?"

I nod. "Yes. I counted nine."

"Me too. Did you happen to see my district partner at the Cornucopia? Clare?"

"No. I didn't see her after the gong went off."

"Me either. I saw Charlie though."

I look at him sharply. "What?"

"Yeah. She was running off the pier a ways ahead of us. Didn't look like she had much, but I'm sure it was her. Pretty sure at least one of the lasses she hung out with during training is with her."

I lean back against the side of the fountain. So Charlie is alive. That's assuring. And inconvenient. Assuring because I'm hoping for her survival if things go badly for me in the arena. Inconvenient because that means that the chances of it coming down to the two of us have drastically increased. I suggest that we begin sorting the packs before it gets dark so that I don't have to think of being forced to gut my district partner.

We begin with the first pack, the one with nothing but knives in it. Almost immediately, we discover a flaw in our strategy. There are two of us, and five backpacks. We simply have too much to carry on our own. We discuss it leaving some of it behind, but neither of us is keen on the chance of another tribute stumbling across a mini-cornucopia of supplies. Finally we decide that we'll each take a pack of as much as we can carry, and then sink the other three packs into the lake with stones. Devon ends up with six knives belted across his waist. I do the same, and then slip two more into each of my boots. Combined with his axe and my staff, we're pretty well armed. We each get three water bottles and a bottle of iodine. Devon takes most of the rope, as I know that he can use it as a weapon and set snares better than I can. I also insist on Devon taking most of the food. He disagrees, vehemently, but I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Devon, exactly how much foraging have you done in District 10?"

I know I'm right even though I can't hear his mumbled reply. I'm used to foraging for food in the woods since half my life I've gone to bed without any dinner, courtesy of my father and brothers. I can feed myself a lot better than Devon can, and he knows it. I'm also playing on his sense of decency, and though I feel a stab of guilt at manipulating him like this, it's the Hunger Games after all. Sure enough, in exchange for most of the food, I get a lighter - an immensely valuable resource, and the only sleeping bag while Devon resolves to make do with a tarp and a wool blanket. He won't freeze but he won't be as comfortable as I will be. I take a package of dried fruit, another of beef jerky, and a few grain bars that will be enough to carry me through a couple of days if food is hard to come by.

We're just finishing sorting through the remaining packs when we hear the anthem begin to play. We look up but the canopy of trees overhead blocks the sky from view. I nudge Devon and lead him through the woods to the lakeshore just in time to see the Seal of Panem fade from the sky and the first face appear.

The girl from 3 is first. Then both from 5. A sudden image of the mother of the girl from five being slapped across the face as she tried to keep her daughter from being taken flashes across my mind. I shake it off but not before I wonder what she's like now. Both from 6 appear. Then the boy from 8. So Devon was right, Charlie is alive, and so are her friends Qin Li and Bobbi. Clare is next, her tiny face angelic. I don't look at Devon. Then the boy and girl from 12. The Seal appears again and then the sky goes dark.

I stay silent on the way back, but Devon is trying to figure out who's left in the arena. I'm worried about being overheard, the Careers are sure to be out and about by now, but I let him because I know it's taking his mind off of Clare. He still feels guilty about leaving her to die at the Cornucopia but it's not like he had much of a choice.

"So all six Careers are still around. Bastards."

"Plautia's not bad," I say, remembering laughing with her as we did edible plants together.

"Yeah, she's decent. It's going to get her killed. Then there's the boy from 3. You and Charlie. Me. The other bloke from 9. Both from 11. And I'm missing two."

"Qin Li and Bobbi. Charlie's friends."

"Right."

We make camp inside the fountain. Devon wants to light a fire, but I won't let him. I'm not convinced that it won't be seen even with all the forest cover we have. So instead we hunker down and try to fall asleep. I soon hear Devon's quiet snores and I know that the time has come. Quietly, utilizing every skill I've learned in the forest, I roll up my sleeping bag and pack up my supplies. I take my staff, pull myself out of the fountain, and make my way through the woods without looking back.

I'm trusting Devon to sink the remaining supplies in the lake like we agreed. A part of me, the small, cold, survivalist side, knew how easy it would be to take Devon's supplies as he slept and sink them too. But just as I played on Devon's sense of decency with the food, I knew that I would never be able to escape my own, and destroying an ally's supplies is low, even for the Hunger Games. So I walk away, leaving Devon to his fate. He's in a vulnerable position, asleep near the lake a few miles from the Career camp, and I'm hoping that the Careers are able to track him down tonight so that I no longer have to worry about killing Devon Hooley myself. It's as decent as a person gets in the arena.

I stop at the lake to refill my water and then make my way west, through the ancient park. Two knives are in my hand, and I jump and twitch at every little sound. Once, I see a dark shape scamper across the ground and before I even realize that the knife has left my hand I've pinned the rabbit to the ground. I'm congratulating myself on my own aim as I slit the rabbit's throat and stuff it into my pack. I'll have to eat it tomorrow, even if it means lighting a fire. It won't last long and I'm not stupid enough to eat raw rabbit.

I spend the night switching off between dozing for an hour or two and then walking through the woods. I know I'm long out of what was one the park but the trees have expanded through their onetime border. It's dawn when I reach the end of the tree line. I climb over a mound of grass strewn rubble to find that I've made my way into the center of the Giants' City.

It's a terrifying sight. I'm sure that the Gamemakers manipulated the environment to make it seem as though the city had just fallen in the ancient wars and hadn't been crumbling for centuries. Train cars and sections of rubble are burning, emitting noxious fumes. Steel is twisted into a spiderweb of piercing metal. Not all the buildings here are entirely collapsed. Gaping doorways and windows lead into what I'm only assuming are Gamemakers traps. My knees are shaking, and I can feel the sweat beading on my brow. My eyes are riveted to the wasteland before me and I almost miss the silver parachute as it descends in front of me.

What is this? A sponsor's gift? Eamon made it very clear I wouldn't be getting any of those. So what then? A trap? I figure there's only one way to find out and unwrap the parcel. Inside is a small plastic handle with a switch. I flip it up and a short blade slides out of the end. A razor blade.

Now I'm confused. As far as sharp and pointy objects go, it's useful, but I've got eight other decent blades. It's not made to be thrown, and certainly won't be useful in a knife fight where my opponent will no doubt have a longer, more easily handled weapon. So what then? My stomach goes sour as I realize what Eamon is trying to tell me. There is only one thing this razor is useful for. To be used on myself. Maybe he thought seeing the Giants' City up close would be successful in sapping my resolve and turning the blade upon my own wrists. Well he's got another one coming to him. I've raised my hand to hurl the blade into the wasteland when I realize how foolish that would be. Sponsors are watching. They don't know the purpose of the blade, surely, but throwing away sponsor's gifts would mean that all their money would be withdrawn and given to some other more appreciative tribute. And the monetary pressure that's bearing down on Eamon is my only hope. So despite myself I have to grit my teeth and look damn appreciative.

I wink at the sky and dig into my pack. I pull out a coil of strong cord and make myself a wrist brace, tying the razor firmly inside my sleeve. Who knows, it may end up being handy after all.

I make my way down into the Giants' City. It may be foolish, but I'm thinking of the rabbit in my pack. Fires are burning everywhere here and no one is going to notice one more. I find myself in a valley of rubble, low enough that the fumes from the fires rise above me and there's breathable air below me. I reckon I should be as safe as you can get here. Few tributes will make their way into this hellscape and the Careers have easier targets. I sip my water, knowing that eventually I will have to return to the lake but I haven't given up hope of finding an alternative water source. I build a fire as well using the dried wood lying around and end up having a decent meal of roast rabbit. Tomorrow I'll hunt in the park again and see if I can't forage any edible plants as well. But for now I resolve to get comfortable.

I do such a good job of it that I almost miss the telltale signs. The trickle of dust descending from the rubble. The clatter of a dislodged stone. My exhausted mind is working slower than it ought to, and I just manage to spring up, knife in hand, when the boy from District 3 crawls into view.

He looks at me with terrified eyes. No doubt he was trying to sneak in and steal food while he thought I was asleep. He looks to be about fourteen, but he's a small and scrawny fourteen. I'm small as well, but built with enough muscle to be intimidating to this weed of a boy. His hands and back are empty. He must have fled the bloodbath as fast as he could without pausing to take anything.

"Please," he mutters. "Don't hurt me, don't kill me."

I brandish the knife at him. "Get out. Now."

He looks at me with big eyes. "M-my name's Chip."

I roll my eyes. What does this kid think this is, the Panem Districts' Ice Cream Social? "I don't care what your name is, all I care is that you're gone. I won't give you another chance."

His face looks mournfully at my rabbit. "I'm really, really hungry."

"It's the Hunger Games, kid. Surprise." I throw the knife at him. I'm not really aiming for him, just in the general direction, but it comes pretty close. The kid gives a yelp and scampers. I watch him buck off in satisfaction then frown to myself, knowing I'll have to move my camp now.

I retrieve the knife, pack my now cooked rabbit, and make my way down a dark street where the buildings are relatively intact. Most of them are closed off so the tributes can't hide inside and are confined to the streets, but one or two are opened. Despite my wish to make myself invisible, I don't fall for the temptation of venturing inside one.

It's not long before I hear the sounds behind me. Sure enough I whip around in time to see a black-haired head duck behind a metal barrel. Idiot kid. I'm actually going to have to kill him myself. He's loud, he's a danger, and since he's never been an ally I don't have an obligation to him. Unfortunately, he's out of range when he ducks back out and sees me staring at him. He goes into his whole 'don't kill me, don't kill me' routine again and even though I'm aching to shut him up, I can't end his life without being louder than I want to be right now.

"Kid. Why are you following me?"

"Because...you have food."

I grit my teeth. "Yeah. And you're not getting any unless you have some good sponsors. Now get out of here! I won't miss the next time."

A rumbling sound echoes to my side. I turn and see a pedestal rising inside one of the tall, crumbling buildings. It's a stone table four feet high, just inside the doorway. On top of it are two packs.

Chip is at my side. "What do you think it is?" he whispers.

"I don't know."

"Maybe,..." his eyes light up. "Maybe it's food!"

He runs towards the door and I follow, trying to call him back. "Chip! No, stop!"

He turns and sneers at me. "What's the matter, 7? You scared?"

"Yes," I reply. "I happen to be very wary of strange gifts from Gamemakers."

Despite my words of caution, Chip is inside the building. I know I should run, escape while I can, but I'm frozen in fear and yes, curiosity. Chip grabs one of the bags and pulls it off the table. I wince. Close my eyes. Wait. Open them again. Nothing has happened.

Chip is rummaging in the pack. "It is food!" he yells. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe this isn't a trap. Maybe it's just another way of sending sponsor gifts. Chip's must be generous if they can send two packs of food. Two packs, one for each of us.

Chip looks at me and I can tell that he's thinking the same thing I am. A wicked grin crosses his face and he reaches out for the second pack. A wave of - what is it? Intuition? Foreboding? - washes over me.

"Chip! Don't be a fool! Don't touch it!" I scream.

His smile widens. "Gotta be faster then, loser!" And he grabs the second pack.

The roar is sudden and immediate. Chips eyes widen in fear and he bolts for the door, but the explosion is much faster. His cannon is lost in the roar of the collapsing building as his body is vaporized instantly.

I run. Run down the street. I risk one look back to see the floors pancaking on themselves as the Gamemakers' trap runs its course. A wall of dust and flying stone catches me before I'm a hundred yards away. Something strikes me in the back and I'm on the ground and I can't even breathe or move as the air turns grey and my vision goes black.


	15. Chapter 15

Blight:

It's odd how injuries seem to affect your mind as well as your body. I'm not talking about the blows and punches that I've dealt with all my life from my father, brothers and others around District 7. I mean real injuries, like the ones I've sustained thus far in the arena. Injuries that fall firmly into the category of 'very, very bad.' Ever since the Games first started, my senses have been on high alert. Everything has seemed sharper somehow, clearer. It's most likely a courtesy of existing in a continuing state of terror. But not anymore. In fact, the opposite is true. Ever since the Gamemakers' trap in the ruined tower was sprung, my mind and thoughts have seemed blurred. My torn and battered body feels less agony than I believe it should. And I have no more energy for fear. My body tells my brain that it's going to die very soon, and my brain replies that it really couldn't give a damn right now.

I remember dragging myself through that terrible cloud of grey smoke and dust. How I managed to keep a hold of my staff and my pack throughout that terrible journey, I have no idea. I just remember how every move of my arms and legs was torturous, and how even the thought of standing up was out of the question. My mind was still lucid enough to not cave into the temptation of crawling into one of the inviting doorways that lined the streets. Finally, after what must have been hours, I managed to come across a mostly tumbled down ruin with one corner still standing. It wasn't much, but it managed to shelter me from the worst of the blanketing cloud of dust. I know that I tried to set up some semblance of a camp, but the staff and pack fell from my nerveless fingers and I curled up into a ball of misery as the anthem played and Chip's face appeared in the sky.

The Gamemakers seem to think that I've suffered enough for a while now and they leave me be for the night. Perhaps there are more exciting tributes to focus on for now. The Careers have had two days to prepare and surely they've been combing the region for other tributes. I thank the Gamemakers that this is such a large arena, one of the largest I remember seeing. I awaken well into the third day of the Games. I spend the day in my corner, nibbling beef jerky and sipping my precious supplies of water. I know I should get a move on or risk being found by the Careers or suffering the boredom of the Capitol and the traps that litter the arena, but I simply can't bring my body to cooperate. Add that to the fact that even breathing is difficult, as if there are stones lodged in my chest. Right now, dying in this corner doesn't seem so bad, and unconsciousness beckons with inviting arms.

_Damn you Jason. Stop it. Stop looking at me with that stupid boyish grin. Stop reminding me that I promised I would come home to say I'm sorry. I really don't want to get up right now, and there's nothing you can do that's going to make me. Oh. Oh great. Yeah, you're going to hold hands with Madame Lucia and my mother? You're all going to try to get me to walk on back to you. Yeah, great idea. I'll walk from here to District 7. Tell the Capitol that I have a pressing appointment that I can't afford to miss. Brilliant plan Jason. Brilliant._

_What's this? Oh, a hand to pull me up? You're sweet Jason. Very sweet. Yes, that was sarcasm. I'm up now. Happy? No? Whatever. Oh, you want to go riding? And you want to race me? Don't try it, I can outride you with my hands behind my back and my feet in lead boots. Hey! Don't you run away from me when I'm talking to you! Yeah, I'm talking to you Jason! Where are you going now! Come back!_

_Jason, come back._

_Come back._

My eyes snap open and I know where I am again. There's no Jason, no Madame Lucia. I'm still in the arena.

But where the hell am I?

I double over in pain, my mind clearing and the pain in my body multiplying. It seems my mind has begun to heal if not my body. I look around and realize that while I'm still in the Giant's city, I'm in a totally unknown area. I must have walked in a daze for a number of hours judging by the setting sun. I guess my mind just shut down and forced my body to do what it had to no matter what the consequences. That or Jason actually appeared and led me to safety. Which is stupid. I'm in this arena. Not Jason. Although that doesn't mean that I wasn't glad to see him.

I'm in a section of the Giant's City that's pretty much made up of high mounds of rubble, not partially intact buildings. The exception is before me. It's a low, but almost whole building except for the fact that it's missing a roof. If I had to make a guess, it was once a temple where the ancient Americans worshipped. A portrait of what I assume to be a goddess with wavy green hair and a crown is mounted over the door along with her name. Starbucks. Well, hopefully she'll have a bit of mercy if I make camp in her temple. I climb inside and set down my pack and staff. I'm worried now, because even though I have mildly more energy, my breathing is no better. I want to fall straight back asleep but I force myself to stay awake until the anthem plays. Sure enough, I must have missed a cannon during my trek across the city. The face of the girl from 11 appears, hovers in the sky for a few seconds, then disappears. The seal appears again and by that time there's no stopping me. I'm falling asleep, my head resting against my pack.

The rain wakes me on day four. I'm already soaked to my skin due to the lack of roof over my head. I lay for a moment unmoving, watching the dust that has clung to me for two days wash off in rivulets of chalky grey. Well at least I'm relatively clean now. As I lay there, I know that this is the day I have to get back into the game. The Gamemakers have allowed for my reprieve, and now I'm certain that it's over. I have to show that I'm still in this to win, or risk being tested in a no doubt horrific manner.

The first thing I do is place my three water bottles beneath the streams of water pouring down from the walls around me. They fill quickly and I purify them. I then drink greedily, knowing that I need to rehydrate my body. As they refill, I begin to assess my injuries. I strip off my coat, my t-shirt, my belt and my pants. My head and face seem to have been fortunately spared from the torture the rest of my body went through. My legs and arms are red and covered in angry patches of laceration and cuts from flying bits of stone, but my clothes protected me from the worst of it. But my back. I can't even see it but I know it's bad. Sure enough, I merely touch where I know the wound is and my breathe escapes me in a sharp hiss. It's not bleeding but the deep ache that accompanies the pain lets me know that it may be worse than I thought. I have plenty of bandages and so I gingerly spread anti-infection cream from my supplies onto my entire lower back and then wrap bandages around my back and stomach. By the time I'm redressing, the rain has stopped. I'm just pulling my coat back on when a cannon sounds. I pause, listening, and sure enough another one booms out a couple of minutes later.

I don't waste time on speculation, but I can only hope that the Careers are beginning to turn on each other. Although it's very possible that I will be seeing Charlie or Devon's face in the sky tonight. The thought has just crossed my mind when I'm doubled over in terrible, terrible pain as my body is wracked with coughs. I feel as though I'm going to cough my throat out. My hands are over my mouth until the attack is over, and when I pull them away, my palms are covered in blood.

"No," I whisper. "Gods, no." This is bad. I knew that I had inhaled a fair amount of dust and tiny bits of rubble, but the damage is far worse than I thought. I know instinctively that they have lacerated my lungs. I also know that nothing in my pack with be even remotely useful, but that doesn't keep me from checking.

Burn cream. Bandages. Tracker jacker antidote. Anti-bacterial cream. Rubbing alcohol. No Miracle-Lung-Restore.

It's early in the game, so medicine isn't as phenomenally expensive as it gets, but I already know that Eamon won't be sending me anything. Which is why I don't notice the silver parachute until it's landed at my feet.

"Eamon," I whisper. "You didn't." I open the package in disbelief and find out that I was right. He didn't. Eamon has sent me a bottle of white liquor, like the kind the Tav in District 7 serves in shots because it's so strong. Unlike the razor, the message is instantly clear. My mentor and my father and my brothers and my district are watching. Always watching. And always laughing at how much pain I am in.

I'm again seized by the desire to hurl the bottle from me, but I'm still sticking with my policy of not throwing away anything my sponsors have paid for. So instead I break the seal and take a swig from the bottle.

Bad idea, Blight. Most of it ends up spewed out in a shower of alcoholic fumes. Good thing I didn't light a fire, because one spark would most likely set my face alight.

So nothing for me in my pack. Nothing from my mentor. Unless the Gamemakers decide to bestow medicine to me on a platter, I'm going to die. And the chances of that are...well, look at what happened to Chip. He laid a hand on one of their gifts and got blown to bits.

But something about that memory is off. Something is not how I'm remembering. And then I realize. Chip had his pack. He had the gift. And the trap wasn't sprung until he grabbed the other one. Until he grabbed mine.

It comes to me in a rush of understanding. The Gamemakers will give us gifts according to our needs. Chip needed food. He was given food. But then his greed overtook him and the trap was sprung. If he didn't spring the trap...he would have gotten the food. So if I need medicine, the Gamemakers will give it to me. As long as I don't spring the trap. But in order to get the medicine, I'll have to journey back into the Giant's City. Back into the Avenue of Temptations. An apt enough name I suppose.

I'm fully aware that my theory is full of holes, but it's all I have to go on and it's not like I have anything better to do. I pack up my camp immediately, knowing that it may take a few hours to return to the site of Chip's death. Before I leave, I eat and drink. On a whim, I bury a bit of dried fruit and beef jerky and pour a few drops of water over the mound as an offering to Starbucks. I figure it's always good to show politeness to strange gods. Not that Starbucks did the Americans much good. But I won't say that out loud in case she's listening.

It takes less time to return to the Avenue of Tempations than I had anticipated, despite being wracked with two more coughing attacks, each one yielding more blood then the last. My time is running out, and I've had no luck on the Avenue. I look into each doorway, hopefully, expectantly, to be rewarded with nothing but darkness and dust. I reach the end of the buildings and realize that I've been playing on a fool's hope. There's nothing here. The Gamemakers have no more interest in me than to see me die in a puddle of my own blood. And my dad and brothers have won. I let out a roar of frustration and anger that doesn't end even when the air ends my lungs. I turn around and look through the doorway of the last building in the street, watching in disbelief as a pedestal rises in the middle of the empty room with a small case resting on top. The red cross on the case makes it obvious. This is the medicine. The gift I so desperately need. So what's the trap?

Well, there's no point in standing here wondering about it. I leave my pack and staff outside, knowing that they may hinder me more than help right now. I take a deep breath and step into the room. Nothing. I take a few cautious steps forward. A low humming is echoing through the room, and I wait for what seems to be eternity, but is only a couple of minutes. The humming is constant, and not increasing. A few more steps forward. No change.

I try to ignore the thought that there is no doubt that all of Panem is watching this. Every camera trained on me as I desperately try to figure out how I'm going to get that life-saving case without killing myself. Slowly, carefully I come to the pedestal. I close my eyes. Has the humming increased? No. Well. There's no point in drawing this out then. I place my hands on the case, take a breath, and pick it up, and at that moment all the lights in the room switch on.

"Holy shit!"

The lights illuminate what I have been walking under unknowingly as I crossed the room. Tracker jacker nests. Dozens of them. Each one crawling with hundreds of enormous golden wasps whose stings bring madness and death. And now with the bright and irritating lights blazing at full power, the humming is definitely getting louder.

I don't hesitate. I grab my case and sprint from the room as the tracker jackers begin to emerge. I race out to my pack and staff, hoping they didn't have time to register and track me, but sure enough one golden wasp is flying towards me like a bullet. I take my staff and tell myself it's one of Tara's knives and by purest luck my staff bats it away to the ground. It's dazed for a moment, giving me time to grind it under my boot.

But the others are moments away, I know. This is the trap. Get the medicine. Escape the trackers. And I have no hope to do so. I'm not fast enough with my injuries, and I have nothing to protect myself, I've received no help except for a razor and a gods damned bottle of white liquor.

The humming has reached a crescendo, and I have only moments, but my mind is working faster than it ever has. In no time the bottle is out and opened and I've torn a strip from my t-shirt. I stuff it into the nozzle of the bottle, pour rubbing alcohol over it, and light it with my precious lighter. It takes only a moment to pick up the bottle of liquor, aim, and hurl it towards the doorway that is now glinting with hundreds of deadly golden lights.

Eamon's gift explodes in a ball of fire and smoke that quickly engulfs the doorway. I pick up my pack and staff and begin moving away in case any tracker jackers make it through the fire. None do. Instead, I hear dozens of small popping noises, and I imagine each nest bursting like corn in a kettle.

I make it behind a hill of rubble and grasses before I open the case. Inside is a vial of light bluish liquid. I don't hesitate to down it, ignoring the vial taste. The thought that it might be poison and this might all be a Gamemaker joke crosses my mind but then my breathing becomes easier, so much easier, and even my back improves remarkably. I breathe a prayer of thanks to the stars and the gods and yes, even the Gamemakers. I turn my back on the blazing inferno behind me and make my way out of there as fast as I can. The fire is sure to attract unwanted notice, and nothing, not even the most desperate need, will get me to go back to the Avenue of Temptations again.

That night, I lay in Starbuck's temple as I eat the rest of my rabbit and finish my water. I watch the seal light up the sky, followed by the images of the boys from 9 and 11 who must have died this morning. That leaves me, six Careers, Charlie, Qin Li, Bobbi, and Devon in the arena. Only eleven left. Ten more to die. Tomorrow I'll have to make my way to the forest park and the lake to get more water and food, even though that will bring me into Career territory. I've been fortunate enough to go two full days without coming into contact with anyone here, but I have a feeling that's over. Indeed, as I watch the stars light the sky through the roofless temple, I have a feeling that the Hunger Games are truly about to begin.


	16. Chapter 16

Jason:

"Boy. Wake up."

I toss in my bed and try to rub the sleep from my eyes. It is far too early to be rising, the sun isn't even over the horizon. My confusion at the early hour is quickly overshadowed by the fact that Mack is inside my house and standing over my bed.

"Mack? What-?"

"Get dressed quickly Jason, and meet me outside."

He disappears from the side of my bed, and by the time I'm sitting up and letting wakefulness clear my muddled mind he's already gone. I quickly throw on trousers and a shirt and pull my boots onto my feet. I'm careful to not wake my mother as I quietly exit the house. Mack is outside, waiting for me. I begin to speak but he only shakes his head and jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating that I should follow.

We make our way through the village, which is as dead as a tomb at this hour. In a short while the sun will rise and the lumberjacks will begin heading out to the camps and the mills, but there's no one on the streets now except for a few Peacekeepers. They glance our way when we pass and then ignore us. I can only assume that they think we're just getting an early start to our work, or that they know that Mack and the Head Peacekeeper are friends and have been told to leave him alone. Either way, we're not bothered until we reach our destination.

To my surprise, I realize that we're at the mayor's house. I know it by sight, but obviously I've never been inside. It's very early for a house call, but rather than go to the front door Mack leads me around to the back of the house were a stark wooden door is tucked into one corner of the enormous house. Mack goes to this door and knocks three times, waits for a moment and then knocks twice more. A slit opens in the door and a voice, low and feminine, speaks.

"The days are dark."

"I've brought a lantern," says Mack.

This is total nonsense to me, but it must have been the correct answer because the door opens. A surge of recognition runs through me and it takes me a moment to realize that this is not Charlie standing in the threshold but her oldest sister. I would guess that she's around Lees' age. She beckons for us to follow her and leads us down a damp concrete staircase to the cellar. To my surprise, it's a cozy, warm place with a woodstove and oil lamps on the small tables. A large oak table sits in the center and old, mismatched chairs are gathered around it. The only person in the cellar is Mayor Lourdes, Charlie's father. I bow my head in respect to our legendary mayor, trying to hide the shock in my eyes. I last saw the mayor at the reapings two weeks ago, and he looks like he's aged two decades. His hair is lank and wispy, his suit hangs on his drooped shoulders. But it's his eyes that are truly frightening, they are dead and hopeless. A surge of sympathy wells through me as I think of what I know about this man and all that he has lost at the Capitol's hands.

A bowl of fruit is on the table as well as a basket of warm pastries. Its real bread from the bakery, not the flat unleavened bread that we make from our ration grains that's all my mother and I can afford. My mouth waters with the smell and I tear my gaze away from the basket, not wanting to seem rude. The mayor has seen, however, and a spark of life seems to glint momentarily in those eyes as he gives me a small smile.

"Carla, please run up to the kitchen and bring some more rolls please." His daughter nods and exits. "Please Jason, sit down and eat all you want. You're a young lad, and you need food. It's no doubt been a...hard week for you as well."

"Thank you, sir," I say as I take a roll and sit down next to Mack. "But I'm really confused. What am I doing here-"

"All will be explained, son," says the mayor. Mack puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and I don't ask any more questions. I hear the door opening and closing above us several times as I eat and we're soon joined by Reuben, Greta, a trapper I know named Moran, and a couple of people from the town whose faces I recognize but names I can't recall. It's not until Head Peacekeeper Core arrives and sits on my other side that I realize that the group consists mainly of Mack's friends, the people I've been watching the Games with this week. But I have no idea what they've brought me here for at this hour until Carla returns with a second basket of rolls and a pitcher of juice that I learn.

"I've brought Jason here because it's time for him to learn. It's time for him to know what's at stake."

"You think this is wise?" asks Reuben. "The boy may be Blight's...friend, but every new person you bring in here is a new security risk, and this boy has already proved that he has a hot temper that he can't always control."

"He's young. You were once young too, Reuben."

"Besides, he can be useful to us," says Greta. She gives me a wink. "When the time comes for action, not for words, he can be very useful to us."

A chill runs down my back and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "You're talking about rebellion, aren't you? All of you, you're fighting against the Capitol?"

"Right, now, we're a bunch of old people who talk regularly over tea," says Greta. "It's your generation that will be the rebellion. Maybe the one after yours if we're unlucky. But we all have to start somewhere, don't we?"

I rock back in my seat stunned. "But...but I'm just a lumberjack. I'm not special. What do you need me for?"

"I've already told you about the evacuation that will take place when Blight dies, before the Capitol finds out about the gambling fiasco that our precious district is so caught up in currently. Those plans are solidified. We can all get the people we love out of here before the Capitol comes in and deals with us accordingly for profiteering off of the Hunger Games. But recently, we've realized that there's a second possibility, ridiculous as it used to seem. It's been a week since the Games started, and he's not dead yet."

"Blight may actually win," says Core.

"And if he does, he will be a Victor, and hugely influential in the Capitol as well as the district. Eamon is in the Capitol's pocket, Vera doesn't care, and Jules is far too old to really help out the way we need him too. If Blight becomes a Victor, we need him to support us and the cause," says the mayor.

"You think he won't?" I ask.

Mack gives a grunt. "The district threw him to the Hunger Games. I doubt he'll give a damn whether we burn or not if he gets back. Unless someone persuades him to think differently. Someone close to him, someone he cares about. And that eliminates virtually the entire district. Except you, Jason."

"You want me to manipulate him into helping you?"

"We want you to soften him towards the possibility. You don't have to even mention us. Actually, you shouldn't, in case he decides to take his revenge on us by turning us over to the Capitol. Just soften his heart, in any way you can."

I don't speak for a long time as the group watches me intently. "He has to win first," I say. "I can't give you an answer now. Wait until he's back home."

"Well, it's better than a 'no,'" says Mayor Lourdes. "Speaking of which, what's the situation in the Capitol, Core. What's dear Eamon up to?"

"He's under huge pressure. Donations from sponsors are building up, but he's still given Blight only two worthless gifts. Not that that's stopped the boy." He smiles, and I remember the shock and shouts that echoed through the Tav when Blight turned his bottle of white liquor into a firebomb. Mack was smiling so gleefully that he didn't even admonish me for standing on my chair and flashing an obscene gesture at Burgen and Abel.

My mind is still reeling from what I've learned and what I've been asked to do as the rebel council talks about names I don't know and people I've never heard of. It's not until Moran asks Reuben about getting a message through to the Capitol that I'm brought back into the conversation. Reuben says that it'll be hard since they used up a lot of favors getting my district token to Blight. I turn to Mack. "Exactly how did that happen, by the way? You've been silent on the subject."

Mack grins at me. "I took it off you in the Tav after you passed out the night of the Opening Ceremonies. I gave it to Core. Core gave it to an Avox on a train to the Capitol. The Avox gave it to a concubine in the President's mansion, who smuggled it to Blight."

"Waste of energy and resources," Reuben mutters.

"It was necessary," Greta snaps at him. "That boy needed hope to survive, and if he survives, hundreds of people will live. You call that a waste?" Reuben doesn't answer.

The rest of the meeting is more meaningless chatter to me, and I hardly notice when we're ushered out of the cellar. I make my way back home, grab my pack and gear, and travel to the camps to work the day out. I'm distracted the entire day and don't say a word to anyone. Instead, I'm thinking of rebellions, tokens, concubines, Avoxes, secret meetings, and Blight desperately trying to survive in that arena, and, against all odds, succeeding.

That evening, I'm right back where I've been all week, at a table in the Tav with Lees, Mack, Evelyn, Greta, Core, Reuben and the rest. Only the mayor doesn't join us, as he's no doubt watching at home in privacy with his daughters. Blight has been in the arena for a week now. This is the third day since he used the bottle of alcohol to escape the tracker jackers, a feat for which he has already won renown for in the Capitol.

There have been no deaths the last two days. On the same day as Blight's tracker jacker escape, the boys from 9, 10, and 11 attempted a raid on the Career camp at the Cornucopia. The boy from 10, Devon, obviously wasn't too keen on joining up with the other two, but he agreed that they desperately needed food and three had a better chance than one. They managed to infiltrate the camp when the Careers were hunting and almost got away with it, but the Careers returned early and trapped them at the pier. The boys from 9 and 11 were killed by Link and Plautia right away, but Devon managed to fend them off for a couple of minutes with his massive ax. He didn't stand a chance though, until the Gamemakers decided to interfere. Hundreds of small white lizards swarmed out of the lake and attacked the supply pile at the Cornucopia. The Careers were torn between finishing off Devon and fighting to save what they could. In the end the girl Plautia broke away and ran for the food, giving Devon enough disraction to swing his way through and make a break for it. He got away with a small pack of food, while the Careers weren't able to drive the lizards off before they lost almost everything.

That was three days ago. The action between the Careers and Blight's quest for medicine seems to have sated the Capitol audience, but I have a feeling that the tributes' reprieve is over. The Games play in the Capitol 24-7, but in the districts we have to work, so unless there's something important going on, we watch the recaps of the day during mandatory viewing time. It usually lasts a few hours, and the Tav is crowded every night. The televisions switch on and silence falls instantly.

We start by watching the Careers gather what supplies they can. All six of them are still working as a group, although tensions are beginning to be strained to the breaking point. The group seems to blame Plautia for the loss of Devon as well as the food. Sure enough, Link stalks around in a haze of anger, kicking empty food bins before shouting at her.

"You stupid, stupid bitch! We had him, and you just had to give him an opening. You just had to run to the food."

"And if I hadn't, you'd all be eating grass," says Plautia, who managed to drag a carton of fruit and beef jerky out of reach. "But by all means, continue stomping around like a big blond caveman." She puts on a deliberately stupid face. "Me Link! Me like to stomp around like child! You listen to me! Me in charge!" She starts thrusting her hips back and forth. "Me want to get it on with Alabaster! Link is big tough man!"

"Shut up!" shouts Alabaster. "Shut up or I drop you right here!"

Even through the screens, we can feel the temperature drop as the mood in the camp turns from sour to deadly. Tara and Alabaster eye Plautia with contemptuous, eager glances. Quintus just sharpens his axe, neither defending nor taking notice of his district partner.

"No you won't," Plautia sneers. "We have a show to put on. Until we take out the others, you need me. Especially since half the others are high scorers. The sponsors don't want us breaking the alliance until we've swept the competition."

"Then let's get out of this camp, and find them," hisses Tara. "Who's left, by the way?"

"Cowboy, the elf, and the three princesses," says Romani.

The Careers grab the gear they have left, along with their weapons, and head out. Alabaster and Link have a huddled conversation,.

"Let me take her out. Please?" Alabaster begs.

Link frowns. "Not yet. If you kill her, Romani and Quintus won't trust either of us, and if we're at each other's throats all of our chances drop. She's right, we need to keep the alliance strong or we all go down before the others."

"But when the time comes..."

"If you get to her first, you can have her."

The Careers travel to the overgrown park and begin sweeping through it, back and forth, trying to flush out the tributes. I feel my stomach clench, as the park is where Blight has been hiding for the past couple of days. I pray that he hears them soon enough to hide if they come his way. Sure enough, the Careers pass by an old fountain, and the camera pans out to show Blight in a tree, fifty feet above the ground, watching them. He was apparently coming back to his hideout after getting water from the lake, but scampered up a tree when he heard them coming. His mouth twitches in amusement as he listens to Link mutter about how the tree elf could be anywhere in this mess, not knowing that he's in a tree right above his head.

The Careers leave and Blight drops silently from the tree. He takes his staff and hastens to his camp, packs up, and heads through the forest in the opposite direction of the Careers, moving swiftly and silently. He makes it to his second hideout, a roofless building, and quickly gets some sleep.

The television shows that Devon is actually quite close to him, but the big eighteen year old is in a much worse state. After his run in with the Careers he fled through the Giants' City to the wastes in the west, putting as much space between him and the others as possible. Unfortunately, this also put him far from the only source of water. He has his axe, a length of rope, and his backpack of food, but not much else left. He spends the day stumbling back towards the lake in a state of increasing dehydration and delirium.

Devon ends up in the Giants' City, and just as it seems as though he'll collapse from sheer exhaustion, an empty fountain suddenly switches on and water pours over the sides towards him. Devon runs towards the flowing water in disbelief, and plunges his hands into the fountain. He pulls them out with a shriek of pain. In his exhaustion he didn't notice what was obvious to the rest of us: the water is boiling hot. Poor Devon has to watch the water rush past him, crawling until he's a hundred yards from the fountain and the stream of water is cool enough to drink from. He lays facedown, without the strength to lift himself up, drinking dirty water like a dying dog. I feel for him, but I wish the Gamemakers hadn't interfered. It would have been better for Blight if Devon had died today. I don't think anyone wants it to come down to the two of them. Well, maybe the Capitol. They get a kick out of former allies turning on each other.

Finally they show Charlie, Qin Li and Bobbi, who of all the tributes have gotten into the least amount of trouble. The girls are camped near the lake, a few miles north of the Cornucopia at the edge of the arena. There's very little cover here, but they're tucked behind a small hillock and they've managed to camouflage the camp very effectively. The girls have made sure to flash quite a bit of skin to the camera, and it's been effective. Usually the Careers get the most gifts but the silver parachutes have rained down on the three girls with food and supplies. However, the price of gifts rises as the Games go on and the gifts have become less frequent. There's apparently heavy betting in the Capitol at when the ladies' alliance is going to break.

Charlie and Qin Li are sleeping as Bobbi keeps watch. The eighteen year old redhead circles the camp slowly, taking in nothing but the wastes around them. The girls had to deal with rat muttations yesterday, but they fended them off with burning branches. Both Qin Li and Bobbi were bitten, but Charlie managed to stay in one piece and even killed one of the muttations. She's a tough girl.

Suddenly, Bobbi looks up. A silver parachute is descending, and it drops right into her outstretched hands. Attached is nothing but a glass vial of green liquid. She looks at it curiously, then takes the stopper out and sniffs it. Her eyes light up just as Qin Li sits up behind her.

"Bobbi?" she asks. "What's going on? Is it my turn to keep watch yet?" She sees the parachute. "What did they send? More food? Medicine?"

Bobbi keeps the small vial hidden in her hand. "Nothing, sweetheart. A bit of painkiller to take so we can sleep better. We have enough food, and I think our mentors are waiting to send us things when we really, really need them."

Qin Li nods. At sixteen she's the youngest of the three. "I'm hungry, Bobbi."

"I know, sweetheart. But we need to ration the food so it lasts."

Qin Li sniffs a bit. "When will this be over? I want to go home."

Bobbi shushes her and Charlie, who it turns out was awake the whole time, goes over and gives her a hug. She holds Qin Li for a while, and then Bobbi and she agree that they can make a bit of soup. Charlie begins to braid Qin Li's hair as Bobbi prepares the soup over the hot coals of their campfire. She tests it to make sure it's hot and then dishes some into a small tin cup. Curiously, she then takes the vial of liquid that was sent to her, pours it into the soup, and dishes out two more cups.

The Tav is silent as we realize what Bobbi is doing. "Oh Charlie," Mack groans. "Not like this. Not like this."

Charlie gets up and takes her cup. She looks at Bobbi's and frowns. "Bobbi," she says. "You need to eat too. You've hardly taken any."

Bobbi smiles softly. "I'm really not that hungry. You two need to keep up your strength, you're starting to show ribs. Eat up! I'll be just fine." She takes Qin Li her cup of soup with many soft words. As her back is turned, Charlie pours some of her soup into Bobbi's cup.

Bobbi takes her cup, makes a joke about her cooking skills, and the girls laugh. Bobbi takes a sip of her soup. "So tomorrow, I'm thinking that we should-" She stops, holds her stomach.  
>"I - I don't. Feel." The cup of soup falls from her shaking hands. Her face is turning blue. She is screaming. "No! No! It wasn't supposed to be me!"<p>

Charlie and Qin Li are watching Bobbi in utter shock and disbelief as she staggers around the campsite like a drunkard. Bobbi sees Charlie, stumbles towards her. "What did you do? What did you do? You-" But no more words come as she gasps for breath, falls to the ground and spasms for a few moments. Then she lies still. The cannon sounds.

Charlie and Qin Li are frozen in silence. So is the Tav. So is Panem. All are looking at the corpse of the redheaded girl who was killed by Charlie's kindness. Betrayed by a silent act of generosity.

Qin Li looks at Charlie. "You...you killed her!"

Charlie backs away. "No, Qin Li no! How could I have? She made the soup!"

"You poisoned her! You killed her! Just like you're going to kill me!"

"Qin Li no! We're allies! Allies!"

"You killed her! I'll kill you first!" From her pocket Qin Li produces a small knife. She must have grabbed it at the Cornucopia and hidden it, because it didn't come down with any of the parachutes. Charlie takes one look at the knife in Qin Li's hand, then at the girl coming towards her. She gives a shriek and runs for her life.

It's a race between hunter and prey, and Qin Li is faster. Charlie doesn't get twenty yards before Qin Li launches herself on top of the older girl. Charlie's screams and Qin Li's shouts mingle together as the girls roll on the ground. Charlie attempts to hold the girl's wrist to keep the knife away from her, but Qin Li is possessed by a strength given to her by mad fear. Charlie gives one massive wrench and rolls Qin Li over, but then Qin Li is back on top, they're both holding the knife, and the screams suddenly stop. The cannon sounds again.

Qin Li slowly lifts up, moves, and then her body flips over and Charlie stumbles to her feet, still clutching the bloody knife. She's covered in Qin Li's blood. She looks at the bodies of the two girls who had been her only friends in the arena, then at the scarlet mess staining her face and hands, then the knife she's holding, and she begins to scream. She screams and screams and doesn't stop. She begins to run, this way and that, without purpose, without direction, leaving the camp behind her as she scrambles into the wastes. She never stops screaming, and finally ends in a huddle under a bush, crying hysterically and tearing at her face and hair. Her eyes dart this way and that, like a wounded animal, unwilling to close in sleep. The camera shows her beneath the bush, then pans out to rise above her, as the bush is lost in the wasted expanse that is the arena.

The broadcast ends, and Antonia and Antonius begin to replay the day's events with many gleeful exclamations. There are now only nine left. The Careers. Devon. Blight. And Charlie, now alone and broken.

The Tav is still silent, and we all catch Burgen's words. "The elf is still alive. How can he still be alive? Why won't he die?"

I look into my pint of beer, pushing the anger that's been constantly brewing inside me down. "Why do they hate him so much?"

"This was never about Blight," says Mack. His eyes are distant.

Despite the fact that the head table is having what seems to be a private conversation, the whole Tav unconsciously leans towards them, trying to listen in.

"This is bad," says Jonel. "This is very, very bad."

"Shut up," says Abel. "It'll be fine. There's still a long way to go."

"They're coming!" Jonel shouts. "One more death and they come here for the interviews for the final eight. What in the gods' names are we going to tell them?"

He's right. I had forgotten. Interviews at the final eight. I remember them keenly because I was interviewed when Cameron made the top sixteen.

Burgen is now raising his hand for silence, not that anyone was talking. "Okay," he announces to the crowd. "Okay. This is what we're going to do. We tell the reporters that Blight volunteered himself. That we begged him not to go. That he was a stupid kid who thought he had a chance at becoming famous. And then...and then we tell them that Blight's afraid of water. That's he's afraid of drowning. He used to tell me that when he was a tiny kid. That nothing scared him like drowning. Hopefully the Capitol will find a way to throw him into the lake and put on a show. It's what they want after all."

The crowd is nodding, a few give shouts of assent. Blood is pounding in my ears. I'm on my feet. Walking towards Burgen.

"Don't worry, Dad," says Abel. "Eamon will figure out a way to kill him off if it's the last thing he does."

"I'll kill you!"

The words are torn from my throat but I mean them with everything in me. I've never hated anyone so much as the men before me. "I'll kill you!" I launch at them, and Abel hurls himself at me, but before we reach each other Mack has me in a hold and Connell is restraining Abel.

Burgen looks at me with disgust. "You the bloke who wants to screw my boy?" he asks with a leer. I spit at his feet, but he laughs. "Well, you'll never get the chance, moss-wipe. You could have had him though for all I cared. The slummed out tree-elf whelp, just like his whore mother."

The hold on me loosens considerably as Mack glares at Blight's father. "That's enough, Burgen."

"Who's going to make me, Mack?" Burgen gets offensively close to Mack's face. "You?" The men stare each other down, ignoring the fact that the entire Tav is riveted. Two Peacekeepers make their way towards us, but Core waves them down.

"What business is it of yours what I say about anyone? Especially that Peacekeeper's slut?"

Mack's hand makes to grab Burgen's shirt collar but Burgen steps back out of reach and Mack can't follow since he's holding onto me. But his voice makes up for it. "Don't you dare say a word against Lilia!" he roars. Even I jump.

"I'll say whatever I want about that slut!" Burgen shouts. "I'll say whatever I want about her and her little whelp . That bitch left us for a blasted traitor! She ran away with a damned Peacekeeper and we all-"

"Your wife didn't run off with a Peacekeeper!"

If there was silence in the Tav before, it's nothing like what's going on now. No one seems to breathe as Mack looks Burgen right in the face and says "Lilia didn't run off with a Peacekeeper, Burgen."

There's a pause before Burgen growls "That's a lie, Mack. A filthy lie. You told me that she-"

"I lied, Burgen. I lied. But now it's time to tell you the truth." Mack is speaking gently, as to a child, but Burgen still flinches away from the word 'truth.'

"The Peacekeeper, Marrow, desired her. Half the district did, after all. You were the luckiest man here Burgen. The luckiest. Marrow pursued her, tried to persuade her to sleep with him. He promised her money, standing, gifts from the Capitol. She turned them all down. Frustrated and humiliated, he took a different approach.

"Marrow told Lilia that if she didn't agree to come to bed with him, he would make sure she lost everything. That she would never see Abel, Jonel, or Blight ever again. And that her husband wouldn't ever bring her flowers from the forest again."

Burgen is white as a sheet. Abel has broken away from Connell, staring at Mack in disbelief. Jonel is crying silently. Despite myself, I go over to him and place a hand on his shoulder. I can feel the sobs wrack his body as he realizes that he betrayed his brother for a lie.

"Lilia would have done anything for you Burgen. She loved you and the boys more than her own life, and she was willing to give up everything for you. And she did. She went to him to save you. She let him take away her dignity and break her spirit to save her family. But once Marrow had finished with her, he couldn't bear to look at her. So that night, he took her to the trains and sold her to the Capitol. He got a good price for her in the Avox pens."

Burgen sinks to his knees. "No," he moans. "No. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Lilia came to me that night, before she went to Marrow. She told me that if anything happened to her, I was to tell you that she ran away with him. She was so afraid that you would do something in your anger, something foolish and rash that would cost you your life and leave the boys as orphans. So I did. She had been my best friend since we were kids. I couldn't deny her last wish. I swore I would look after the boys to the best of my ability."

Burgen looks at Mack with tear streaked eyes. "So Lilia...is an Avox? A slave in some Capitol pig's house."

"No. Worse. She's in the House of Women in the Capitol. She's one of President Snow's own concubines."

The howl of rage and grief that tears out of Burgen is terrible, and despite everything that's happened I feel hollow pity for this man. It all comes back to the Capitol somehow. They're the ones that ruin all these lives. I will do everything I can to bring them down, even if it takes me my whole life. But Mack isn't done speaking.

"I watched over your boys best I could. Even Blight. Especially Blight. Because he looked so much like Lilia, and you all made him the object of your scorn for it. I shielded him best I could, protected him from the worst, but there was little I could do. I told myself that it was enough that he was alive and healthy, even if I couldn't stop you from making his life a misery without breaking my promise to Lilia. But I failed. I failed in every way. And you know why?"

He looks around the Tav, and his eyes are terrible. "BECAUSE YOU SOLD HIM TO THE HUNGER GAMES!" He looks back at Burgen. "Lilia gave her life so Blight could live, and you gave him to the very people who took her away from you! You are, without a doubt, the most wretched, vile animal I have ever met, and Lilia, never, ever deserved you."

I think Core has realized that Mack's words are dangerously rebellious, because he takes Mack's arm and shakes his head. Two of his Peacekeepers pick up Burgen and lead him from the Tav. He doesn't protest, he just bows his head and walks between them silently. Abel and Jonel follow. I watch them leave. Abel is clenching his fists, his eyes dangerously hostile. Jonel slumps behind him, wretched and defeated.

The Tav attempts to resume normal conversation, every whispered word is about the confrontation that just took place. A collective feeling of shame hangs in the air. Mack is back at the table, holding Evelyn. No one is watching me. And suddenly, a great feeling of energy washes over me. I'm amazed at what Mack did, about what he was willing to do to protect a man he despised so much for so many years. I want to do something just as brave. Just as he did. For Blight. And suddenly, I know just the thing.

I sneak home and enter my tiny bedroom. I rummage under the bed for a moment and come up with a rainbucket that I use to keep every sesterce that I've managed to save for the past four years. I can't remember now what I was planning to buy with it, something stupid and trivial. I've thought of a much better use for it now.

In no time at all, I'm back at the Tav making my way through the crowd. Mack sees me and motions for me to join him, but I ignore him. Instead, I push my way to the bar and set the bucket on it. I place my hands on the bar and lift myself onto it, standing above the crowd. The bartender yells at me to get off, but I tell him to shut up with a few choice District 7 swear words and he gets the hint. I raise my hands for attention.

"Listen up everyone! Listen up." The crowd grows silent and I realize that every eye is on me. _Too late to get stage fright now_ I think, and continue speaking. "Blight is in the Hunger Games. We can't change that. Each one of us here played part in getting him there, no matter how small. We're all responsible for his life, and now we're all responsible for getting him back here alive."

I raise the bucket. "Eamon won't send Blight anything useful because he thinks that the district will stand behind him. He doesn't have to worry about our bad opinion. Well, we need to let him know that he's wrong. He needs to know that we're standing behind Blight now. We're sending a donation to sponsor Blight. We're doing it so that Eamon will realize that he's all alone now. He'll have to help Blight then. And the only way we can do this is if everyone helps make the statement." I shake the bucket so that the coins inside rattle. "You know how I mean. You all were willing to let an innocent boy die so you could make a few coins. This is your one chance to make that right. Anyone who wants to take it, the bucket is waiting."

I leave the bucket on the bar as I climb down. I feel the heat as I blush red. I'm not one for speeches, and I have no idea how much of an idiot I sounded, but I had to do something. Anything.

Apparently it wasn't worth anything as the seconds tick by and then the minutes. I stand by the bucket as the whole Tav sits and drinks, trying to avoid my eyes.

There's movement in the back. Mack comes up to me. I sigh, knowing he's about to give me another lecture in how I just can't keep my head down or my temper under control. But instead his eyes are filled with pride, like how my dad used to look at me. He slips off his gold wedding band, which must be worth a year's wages in the district, and drops it in the bucket. Greta is right behind him. She winks at me as a few coins go in the bucket. Reuben is next, his eyes filled with what seems to be grudging respect. After him, to my surprise, are Ercole and Connell. They empty their pockets and leave the Tav with red faces.

It's as if a dam has broken after that. The patrons of the Tav line up to contribute what they can. Some give a bit. Some a bit more. Even Jono, the bookie. Even Head Peacekeeper Core. Even Carla, Charlie's sister. The barmaids put their tips in the bucket. The bartender throws in a few coins. By the end of the night, the bucket is brimming. I take it to the Head Peacekeeper.

"I need to take this to the Justice Building so it can be properly sent to the Capitol."

He nods as he motions a Peacekeeper to take the bucket and lead me from the Tav. As I go I hear him whisper, "Well done, lad."

I take a last look at the screens still playing recaps of the night's events. There's Blight, sitting in his tree, ragged and worn, but still fighting. Still alive.

_You're coming home, mate. You're coming home if I have to go to that arena and drag you back myself._


	17. Chapter 17

Blight:

I heard the cannons of course. Everyone in the arena does. The cannons are not only informative, they're also a sort of psychological torture. They let us know that we're one step closer to going home, that our odds have increased that much more. But they are also a reminder that death is everywhere in this arena, that it can strike at any time. And then there is of course the wait to find out who else has been eliminated.

Two cannons went off today, spaced only a couple of minutes apart. I'm back in my camp in the ruined temple, and I pray that they were Careers. Above all, I don't want it to be both Devon and Charlie, because one of them needs to survive if I don't. And if the Careers are turning on each other, it's better for all of us, because without their alliance they're that much weaker. In fact, alone the Careers are just like any other tribute; a poor, frightened kid who just wants to go home. Except for the whole ruthless killer instinct. And the superior training. And the severe lack of ability to engage in witty banter. I take that back, Careers aren't like the rest of us at all. I think the isolation is getting to me.

The trip from my camp in the forest park to my hideout in the temple has worn me out. The distance isn't really that far, a mile or so at the most, but it requires endless navigating of mountains of rubble, so it's like taking a hike and stopping to climb a tree every twenty yards or so in terms of physical exhaustion. Which is why I nearly miss the anthem despite its blasting across the arena. I jerk awake just in time to see Qin Li's face. Qin Li! Did I miss Charlie? Is she-? But no, because Qin Li's fades from the world, only to be replaced by pretty Bobbi. I sit up, try to wipe the sleep from my eyes, and think. Qin Li and Bobbi, dead. And I highly doubt that it was the Careers. I saw them combing the forests just today, hid from them up in a tree. I would know if Bobbi, Qin Li, and Charlie were in the forest, and I highly doubt that they were in the Giants' City. Its twisted maze of metal and stone is too dangerous, too perilous for them. During my moments when I've allowed myself to think about my fellow tributes, I've surmised that the three girls have camped out as far from the Cornucopia as possible, in the wastelands. There's no way that the Careers got out of the forest and found them in the wastes in the space of an hour from when I saw them to when the cannons sounded. For the two girls to have died so quickly...it was either a Gamemaker trap, or the girls turned on each other.

Either way, Charlie's still alive. Who'd have thought she had it in her. She's almost made it to the final eight.

The final eight. District 7 has never had two tributes in the final eight. There are nine of us left. Six Careers, Devon, Charlie, and myself. I can't help but think that things are about to get ugly. The Career alliance must be starting to fray with so few targets left. The Capitol must be eager to see the allies turn on each other, so the Gamemakers will be doing all they can to tie up the loose ends. Namely, Charlie, Devon and myself. Which means that they will be manipulating events to drive us towards the inevitable confrontations.

With these cheerful thoughts on my mind, I drift off to sleep. It isn't very restful. Chip's broken body chases me through the Avenue of Tempations, begging for food. I flee, telling him that I don't have any left, when his body explodes into a swarm of tracker jackers. I run for my life, but the concrete turns to mud beneath me. I wallow through, trying to reach higher ground, when Jason is in front of me. He hold out his hand, and in a surge of desperation I lunge forward and take it, but as I do I look into his eyes and he's not Jason anymore but Link, and he's bringing a sword down towards my neck-

I wake up with a start. The sun is just starting to filter through the broken windows of Starbuck's temple. It's the beginning of day eight in the arena, and I'm already sweating like I've climbed a tree to escape the wild dogs in the woods around the lumber camps back home.

I quickly pack up my camp and take an assessment of my remaining supplies. I'm in pretty good shape overall, except for food. My breakfast comprises of the last of the beef jerky and dried fruit that I've been carrying around for more than a week. Food needs to be the first order of the day. I know that I can find a bounty of edible plants in the forest park, and I may even be able to take down a rabbit or one of the quails I've seen on occasion, but the park is far too close to the Career camp for my liking. I'm better off scavenging for roots on the hills of rubble on the edge of the Giant's City and the wastes. It's more open, but I haven't seen a single tribute besides myself in this area. It's my best option at the moment.

I pack my gear and leave Starbucks' temple behind. It doesn't take long to reach the small mounds of rubble. Here and there, a section of wall or brick pokes through, but centuries of rain and erosion have caused a layer of soil to cover the remains of what were once ancient American buildings. The grasses that grow sparsely are tall enough that I have enough cover to feel comfortable digging up roots and stripping dandelion leaves. It's not a Capitol feast by a long shot, and no doubt it will be the sparsest meal that I've eaten in the arena thus far, but my years of wandering the forests of District 7 after being denied dinner by my father and brothers are paying off. I can feed myself, and I don't need anyone's help. Not my fellow tributes, not the Gamemakers, and not my bleeding excuse for a mentor.

My dark thoughts of Eamon are interrupted by a shuffling sound coming from the other side of the small hill. I freeze, crouched low on the ground. My instincts tell me that I'm about to make my first kill in the arena. Unless it's Devon or Charlie on the other side, I'm guessing that the Careers have finally wandered into my territory. I don't hear human voices, so either they've split up and are traveling alone, or they suspect that I'm in the area and are taking great pains to keep quiet, which considering Plautia's mouth is a small miracle in and of itself. Slowly, silently, I slip a long knife from the brace beneath my jacket. Still silent, knife in one hand, staff in the other, my pack still on my back, I climb to the top of the hill. I'm careful to not dislodge a single stone as I press my small frame against the ground and peer cautiously over.

My breath leaves me in a huff, drawn out by the beauty that is slowly picking its way through the hills. Not thirty yards from me, six horses are trotting through the small valley formed by two of the mounds of rubble. They are too small to be true horses, more along the lines of the ponies we use in 7 to draw carts of kindling and cargo, but these are no drab, stocky ponies. They are delicate, spritely creatures, they move with a grace that I've never seen in any sort of beast. But it's their coats that are truly wondrous, they shine in shades of gold and silver, black with twinkling stars and a white so pure I can't stare at it for long.

"Oh, gods and glory," I whisper, overcome by the sight of these elegant animals. "What are you?"

The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize that I have made my first true mistake since entering the arena. Having spent more than a week in total isolation, I've grown used to muttering my thoughts under my breath, if only to hear the sound of a human voice. The words are barely above a whisper, but all six ponies wheel around to face my direction. Their ears are like no pony ever had, long and pointed like a bats, and the moment I spoke they twitched in unison and pricked them up. As they face me I see that these muttations - because they can be nothing else - have eyes that face forward, like a carnivore. Like a hunter. The largest pony, a stallion with a golden coat, paws its hooves and bares its teeth at me, showing fangs longer than my finger.

This is just destined to not be a good day.

Without hesitating I throw myself backwards down the hill and run with all my might towards the Giants' City. Piercing screams echo behind me, the unearthly sounds of artificial beasts. I don't have to look back to hear the sound of hooves on stone and I know that the mutts are hard on my heels. They are by far faster than I am, but my experience climbing and launching myself over obstacles works to my advantage. My staff is my greatest weapon right now. The knife fell from my nerveless grasp as I fled, but the staff is enough to help me climb the crumbling walls and keep ahead of the savage mutts snapping at my heels.

I have reached the Giant's City, but the open road means death to me. I need to get to the top of a building, where the mutts can't follow. I quickly spot a place where two portions of wall have fallen in towards each other. I run to the place where the gap between them is narrowest and desperately toss my staff above my head so that it lays on top of and between the two walls similar to the chin up bar in the Training Center. I leap up and grab the staff and manage to lift myself up and crawl to the top of the crumbled building when a terrible pain rips through my leg. The golden stallion has caught up to me and sunk its teeth into my thigh in an effort to drag me back down. I'm high enough that the mutt has to rear on its hind legs to get a grip on me, and even as the pain escalates I'm removing one of my knives and desperately slashing across its eyes. The stallion releases me and screams in pain. I manage to pull my leg up to the top of the roof I'm lying on and free my staff as the mutt glares at me with hate filled eyes.

The next hour is a blur as I stumble back towards the forest park, where - Careers be damned - I'll have shelter and cover and a tree to hide up in until the mutts and the Gamemakers loose interest in me. There's no sign of the golden stallion or the rest of the herd as I navigate my way towards the Giant's City. It's not until I reach the edge of the forest that my leg finally betrays me and I collapse to my knees. Despite my efforts to keep quiet, a small cry of pain escapes my lips, and from far behind me a scream of rage echoes from the Giant's City. I turn around slowly, knowing what I will see. The golden stallion trots slowly towards, ears twitching. I begin to suspect the nature of these mutts. A tracker jacker will never relent once it has targeted its victim, and this mutt is the same way. Now that it's registered my voice inside its Capitol-fabricated brain, it will follow the sound every time it hears it as long as it's able.

The revelation comes too late for me though. My leg is bleeding copiously, I'm exhausted, and there is no more fight left in me. If this is the way it has to be, better now than at the hand of one of the Careers. And so I don't try to run as the stallion charges towards me. I simply drop my pack and my staff, and slip one last knife from my jacket in a last desperate defense. The stallion's black eyes are focused on my face, and lift my head to take a last look at the sky above me, and my thoughts are suddenly on Jason, and the hungry look in his eyes as we talked in the stables, and for the first and last time I don't push away what I feel as I think of him, instead letting it wash over me in a last wave of torture and joy.

The stallion's sudden scream is suddenly much closer to me, and this time it doesn't end. It goes on and on in a frenzy of horrendous sounds, and despite myself I tear my eyes down and focus again on my coming death. Which is suddenly not as forthcoming as I expected. The stallion is lying on the ground, struggling to return to its feet, but it's prevented by the noose wrapped tightly around its neck. Another loop of rope flies out from nowhere, and twenty feet from the thrashing animal Devon lassoes its hooves together as neatly as he snared the dummy in the training center so many days ago. He secures his end of the lasso to a tree where he has already tied the rope restraining the mutt's neck. After tying the knot, he looks away from the struggling mutt and towards where I'm staring at him with a blank look of shock on my face.

"That's how we do it in Texas," he says.

''''''''''''''''''

I don't have time to reflect on my deliverance from the mutt before I nearly black out from the pain in my leg. Through my haze, I let Devon help me back to where we first started the Games, to the ruined fountain near the shore of the lake. I don't struggle as Devon gives me water to drink and food from his pack to eat. I let him clean my leg and bandage it. By the time he's finished, my head is clearer and I'm digging around in my pack for the burn medicine. I return the favor of tending my wound by treating and bandaging Devon's scalded hands as he tells me the story of the boiling trap he fell into. I let him talk as I take a good look at my one-time ally. He's much thinner than I remember, dirty, wounded, and his eyes have lost much of that easy happiness that burned so brightly when I first met him. He talks less now, and has a tendency to let his sentences drift off into nothingness. He compulsively clutches the locket that contains the portrait of his lover back in District 10, as if to assure himself that it's still there.

Devon is a changed man. His time in the arena has taught him what pain and suffering human beings can inflict on one another. I can't help but wonder if he notices the same changes in me.

I examine my leg as he chats aimlessly. The puncture wounds are deep, but they missed any vital vein and the bone. They're not in danger of bleeding me out, and now that they're clean and bandaged there's a good chance that they won't get infected. I just have to deal with the fact that they're very, very painful. I'm grimacing at the thought of having to make my way back to Starbucks' temple on it so that miss Devon's question.

"What? What'd you say?" I ask as I try to make sense of the words.

"I said are you going to sneak away from me in the middle of the night like last time?"

His time in the arena certainly hasn't dulled his wits. I suppose there's no point in denying it. "Yes. You know I am."

He fixes me with a look. "Well, this time you can't. We need each other now."

I rise to a sitting position and lean against the wall of the fountain with a groan. "Devon, it's not that I'm not grateful that you saved my life. I mean, believe me, I am. But you really shouldn't have done it in the first place. This is the Hunger Games. Only one winner, remember. You should have just let me die. Would have been that much easier. So thank you for your help, but don't expect to be able to guilt me into teaming up with you because of it.

"So what are you going to do, dude?" Traipse off by yourself again? How exactly are you going to get rid of the Careers? You already let the Gamemakers chase you right into their territory."

I glare at him, not willing to admit that he's right. "I'll take my chances. They can't kill me if they can't find me."

"That won't last. I found you pretty easily. We need to take them down now while there are still enough of us left to."

"Oh, and I suppose you have a grand plan to do that? There's only the two of us, Devon. I haven't seen any sign of Charlie since the bloodbath and who knows if she's in any condition to help us."

"I do have a plan. We need to get one of the Careers to switch sides. Join an alliance with us."

I sneer at him. "And what Career would be crazy or idiotic enough to do something like that?" I ask even as I realize exactly who would be that crazy or idiotic.

"Plautia," says Devon, and he grins as he realizes that I've already come to the same conclusion. I have to admit, his idea has merit. Plautia hates her fellow Careers as much as we do. In fact, as desperate of a plan as it is, she might be willing to help us get rid of them just to ensure that less of them have a chance to become the Victor.

I raise an eyebrow in the exact way that Madame Lucia does. "It's worth a shot, I guess. We'll have to find her first. And get her apart from the Careers so they don't suspect anything. And convince her to not knife us in the back long enough for her to listen to us. Oh, and we have to get some more food to tempt her. After the mutts took care of their supplies, they must be on the edge of splintering. A nice roast rabbit could be all it takes to get her on our side."

Devon yawns and waves his hand impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, we can figure it all out tomorrow. For now, catch some sleep. I'll take first watch."

The sun has indeed set while we were talking, and I wait until the anthem plays before drifting off. There were no deaths today. Thanks to Devon.

I don't remember falling asleep, but the nightmares return, this time featuring the pony mutts who chase me through District 7. They don't scream this time, instead they laugh with Eamon's and Abel's voices. The golden stallion sinks his teeth into my leg again, and the pain races up my side. I jerk awake. The stallion disappears, but the pain doesn't. Someone is kicking my injured leg, hard.

"Devon, what are-" I mutter as I wipe the sleep from eyes. It's only when I can see clearly that mouth snaps shut in terror. It's not Devon crouching in the fountain next to me. It's Link. He reaches towards me and grabs my neck, pulling me towards him.

"Good morning, little elf," he says with a smile.

"""""""""

My mind is numb as I'm dragged from my sleeping bag and out of the fountain. There is no thought of escape, no thought of struggling. There are too many of them, and I'm held tightly by the tributes from District 4. In my own elements of stealth, evasion, and survival, I've been formidable. But facing all six Careers like this, I know that I don't have an icicle's chance in the forge of the gods.

Tara and Romani drag me out of the forest into the open area between the trees and the lake. The sun is just rising over the horizon, bathing the arena in light. I'm confused at this unnecessary trip, but then I realize that there must be many more cameras here than in the forest. Terror rises in me as I unwillingly imagine what the Careers are planning that they want to make sure that the Capitol gets and unhindered show.

They tie me to a tree near the edge of the lake. Quintus, the enormous tribute from District 2, is holding a struggling Devon. Devon is tied up to another tree next to me, and all the Careers take a step back to survey their prizes with glee. Where I've already determined to not let a sound escape my lips between now and the moment of my death, Devon is giving all of Panem a vocabulary lesson in the choicest swear words that District 10 has to offer. Quintus backhands him across the face, and as I see the blood fly from his nose my resolve to remain silent evaporates.

"Leave him alone! Just leave him alone you sick freak!"

Link comes up to me, and fixes me with his bright blue eyes. "Sick freak? You think I'm the freak? You can't talk about freaks, you filthy little elf. I'm not the one who couldn't find any girl in his district, so he had to turn to _boys_." He spits the last word out like a curse. "In District 1, you'd be strung up in a tree for that sort of behavior. But I'm not going to be that kind. The Capitol may love what you are, but in the districts we know how to squash that sort of thing. Like a cockroach. And I'm about to give you a demonstration."

"At least I was able to find someone who cares about me, Link. I can't image that anyone in District 1 approves of mating with a mule like you." The moment the words leave my mouth, I see the look of glee that spreads across Link's face, and I realize that I have made my second mistake in the arena.

"So there is someone," he whispers. "Someone who's watching you. Someone who's probably crying over the little elf right now. Well, that settles it." He turns to the others. "We start with 10 first. I want 7 to have to last as long as I can manage it."

I close my eyes, but I can't prevent two tears from leaking out. My own death is one thing, it's something I can face, but my words have now guaranteed that Jason will have to suffer through a terrible ordeal.

"Enough, Link." Plautia is the only one who hasn't reacted during this exchange. She refuses to look at me or Devon, instead she fixes Link with a steely eye. "You've had your fun. We've still got one more to find after these two, so let's end this and keep hunting."

Link looks at her with disdain. "You really think I've waited all this time to get my hands on the elf and I'm going to let you stick him like you did with little 10? Think again, 2. They're mine, and I'm doing it my way."

"Fine! I'll do it myself if I have to!" Plautia whips out her knife and stalks towards Devon, but Link catches her by the hair and hurls her back. She gapes at him, practically frothing with rage. "You bastard! How dare you touch me! How dare you! By the time I'm done with you, you won't have hands left to touch anyone, you puffed-up, pin-headed, arrogant pile of sewer muck!"

Plautia's face gets redder and redder as she shouts. She's so focused on Link that she never notices when Alabaster walks up behind her, and doesn't even get a chance to blink as the knife is drawn across her throat. The cannon sounds before Plautia's body hits the ground.

"Alabaster," Link admonishes as he rolls his eyes at his district partner.

Alabaster pouts prettily at him. "Come on, you know that we all wanted to do that deep down. Does anyone else have a problem with it?" she asks the remaining three Careers. Tara and Romani are grinning, and Quintus just gives a shrug of his shoulders.

Link laughs. "Get that out of the way so the hovercraft can pick it up," he tells Quintus, and the big tribute picks up the corpse of his district partner and carries it about fifty yards down to the edge of the lake. We all watch as the hovercraft lifts the body of a girl I never really know but had to respect into the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen, congratulations on reaching the top eight!" Link shouts as Plautia disappears from the world. "Soon to be top seven," he grins. His eyes fall on the locket hanging around Devon's neck. He reaches out and pulls it, letting the chain snap around my ally's neck. He opens it and laughs. "Look at that, will you?" he says as he tosses the token to Alabaster.

She looks at it and grins. "Aw, how sweet. Is she your lover, cowboy? Were you two planning on getting married? And then rutting around like the sows in your filthy district? Was she hoping you would make lots of babies for her? Dreaming about carrying your children? Well, she should get a kick out of this then."

I watch in apprehension as Alabaster presses her lush body against Devon. She makes a great show of undoing his pants, and pulls them down to his ankles. My terror is mixed with confusion until I see the knife in her hand and shut my eyes as she draws it between Devon's legs and flicks it upwards.

I will never, ever block out the screams of pain and despair that ring across the lake. I refuse to look at the laughing careers, instead biting my cheek as Alabaster crows "No babies for Lassie Lover!" Then it's Tara's turn and she begins to delicately trace her knife around Devon's eyes.

I have watched the Games since I was a little child. I have seen my share of bloodshed, of horrific deaths, of mutilation so horrible it can't be described. I know that Devon and I have fallen into the worst fate the Games can offer. The Careers don't get a chance every year to display the art of murder with as much time as they please, so when they do manage to capture a tribute alive, they make sure that the Capitol gets a show that it will remember for years. The worst that I remember occurred when I was just a young child, a year before my mother vanished, and I huddled in her arms as the Careers drew out the death of a girl from District 4 for nearly four hours. I can do nothing now but pray to the gods that they deliver Devon from that sort of misery.

But the gods turn their faces from us, and Devon lives for more than seven hours.

The sounds that escape his lips as he's flayed alive tear into me deeper than a knife could. After three hours, I think I'm about to go mad, and I start whispering, "Let him die, let him die, just please let him die." Romani gets sick of my mutterings and shuts me up by stuffing two of Devon's fingers into my mouth. And so I remain silent, eyes closed, letting each cry and whimper etch itself into my heart.

I open my eyes as a finger traces my arm. Link has come up with a new way of humiliating me, and is painting designs on my arm like the ones that I wore in the opening ceremonies, only this time with Devon's blood instead of shimmering paint. Behind him, I see a bloody, huddled mass of flesh that bears little resemblance to the man who was my ally, who I refused to see as my friend until now. He's stopped making sounds, and the Careers have realized that they will get no more satisfaction out of him. Quintus raises an eyebrow and Link nods. The big man from 2 raises a spear and drives it through a rough approximation of where Devon's stomach is. The body gives one twitch and is still. The cannon sounds.

And now all five bloody, murderous Careers are facing me. Link takes a knife and flicks it under my eye, drawing a shallow gash that begins bleeding down my face. I don't flinch. All my terror and grief and fear was drawn out of me during Devon's torture. Now, I just want Link to begin so that it can end.

"Time for the main event," says Link.

I don't make a sound. I don't struggle. What can I do? I'm exhausted, my heart is screaming in grief, and I'm in no condition to struggle. I'm tied to a tree. My wrists are bound behind me. I have nothing left but my dignity.

"It's time for all of Panem to hear how loud you can scream."

And in that moment, every piece comes together for me, and I open my eyes, and I can feel the white hot rage burning behind them. Because my fingers behind my back have closed on the last gift of my mentor Eamon, the razor blade he sent me on the first day that is still strapped to my wrist. And I know that Link is right, that everyone in Panem will hear me, and that something in this very arena will hear my voice as well.

And so I take a deep breath, open my mouth, and begin to scream.


	18. Chapter 18

Jason:

District 7 is in mourning already.

The Peacekeepers wouldn't let us watch the highlights of the Games this evening in the Tav. Core had his orders. Work was let out at noon. The word spread that the district was required to watch the highlights in the square. That's when I knew. I knew something had happened to Blight, and the Capitol - those sick, twisted minds who rule us - was going to get its voyeuristic kicks by capturing every emotion, every horror we witnessed on camera and broadcasting it to the nation.

I'm standing in the square with most of the rest of the district. There are chairs set up for the pregnant, the elderly, and the frail, but besides that it's standing room only. Nevertheless, I've been given a wide berth. There must be something in my face that indicates that I don't want company, that I'm going to endure this alone. I don't care. Because right now my thoughts are on Blight, only on Blight and the horror that he is enduring. It couldn't be any more different from last night. When Blight escaped the pony mutts and teamed up with Devon, cheers rang through the Tav. Ever since Mack's revelations in the bar, the mood towards Blight has shifted dramatically from antagonistic to desperately hopeful. As if we all know that the only way we can redeem ourselves for sending Blight into the Games is by doing whatever we can to bring him home.

I've been watching the Games for years. There are some individuals in the district who are old enough to remember fifty one previous years of Hunger Games. But from the looks on the faces of the people around me, no one could have imagined that the Games could produce this. That the Capitol could gorge its need for violence and death by broadcasting the seven hour torture of the young man from District 10 and force everyone to endure it.

I've lost count of the number of times I've heard a woman shriek out in mad terror at the spectacle on the giant screens. When Devon's fingers were slowly sliced off, while Link and Alabaster used the array of knives available to flay the skin from his body, it became common for men and women to suddenly buckle at the waist and vomit their meager dinners onto the ground. The smell mingles with the sweat of bodies and the fear radiating from the masses into the hot night to make it difficult to breathe. I force myself to watch the screen unblinkingly, drinking in every moment I see Blight alive. I know that he's actually dead, that he died earlier today, but until I see it with my own ears, he's going to be alive in my head.

Finally, after what seems to be nearly a year of my life but were only a few hours, the boy from 2 spears Devon through the stomach and his cannon fires. The crowd cries out in relief and sadness simultaneously. The screen shows the citizens of District 10 standing in stony silence. An older couple and two young men are collapsed into each other's arms, while a young girl is screaming hysterically. A cheerful reporter indicates that these are Devon's family and girlfriend. And then the Careers, minus the girl they had so casually disposed of earlier, turn towards Blight.

A surge of hatred for the Careers rushes through me along with a stronger surge of grief and fear and suddenly I can no longer breathe. I want to throw myself to the ground like that girl in 10 and cry and scream in pain I can't feel, but I won't play the Capitol's game. I won't. I've hardened my heart like a stone in the face of the rain, unmovable and unresponsive. If this is the last thing I can do for Blight, I'm going to dignify his death with my own defiance.

Before Devon's torture began, Blight had a conversation with Link in which he mentioned that he had found someone from home who cared for him. He had looked down at my wooden coin in his belt as he had spoken. It was the first and only indication I had heard that Blight knew how I felt about him.

A small hand takes a hold of mine. I look down and see Merrill Mason, staring at the screen with tear streaked eyes. "It should have been me," he says. "It was supposed to be me."

I put an arm around Merrill's shoulder and pull him close. We don't speak as Link begins to taunt Blight, cutting him across the cheek. The fear in Blight's eyes is evident as Tara slowly draws her knife down his arm. And then Blight begins to scream in terror and my stone heart breaks open. I swore on the day of the reaping that I wouldn't cry until the Games were over and Blight was home but the tears begin to flow down my face regardless. Merrill is sobbing into my side. Moans and cries rise from the watching crowd as the Careers laugh at the straining, crying, screaming tribute tied to the tree. Every time they get close to him, the screams increase in volume. Blight's voice begins to crack with the strain but he doesn't stop.

A voice is screaming in the crowd. I look over and see Jonel, being held back by Mack and Reuben as he attempts to run towards the screen. "I'm sorry, Blight! I'm so sorry! Blight please! Please!" he shouts as his hysteria mounts. Mack sees the Peacekeepers approaching accompanied by Capitol reporters and cameras. He spins Jonel around and punches him across the face. Jonel's cries are abruptly cut off and he's led back to his father and brother, who are resolutely avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Link and Alabaster are debating over the sound of Blight's screams whether or not to cut out Blight's tongue to silence him. Alabaster is all for it but Link insists that he wants to hear Blight beg for mercy until his cannon sounds. Alabaster rolls her eyes and agrees with a laugh. And then, as swiftly as it started, Blight's cries of fear end.

Link laughs in amusement. "Ran out of breath? Don't worry, you'll scream again in a moment," he says as he selects a long, cruel knife from Tara's seemingly endless supply.

Blight doesn't look at him. His eyes are fixed at a point beyond in the distance, beyond the Careers. The look on his face shows no fear. He isn't happy. He's not smiling. Instead, his face twists into an expression of supreme satisfaction. And a new scream, one much higher and more unnatural than Blight's, rings through the arena.

The Careers turn slowly. The camera switches to show the hill a hundred yards behind them. The square is silent as six delicate ponies canter over the rise and fix their eyes on the six tributes by the lake. The largest one, the golden stallion that stalked Blight yesterday, paws the ground in agitation.

"What the..." Link mutters and that's all it takes for golden pony to release a scream of fury and launch itself at the Careers.

Link is shouting orders at his allies as he grabs for a spear, and in his moment of distraction Blight makes his move. The ropes binding him to the tree fall away and the whole district sees the razor that Eamon sent him on the first day of the Games fall from his fingers. He launches himself towards the Careers, and Link is shouting for someone to grab him, and Quintus tries to reach for him as he flies past, but Blight is far too fast for him. In the space of a few seconds, Blight has dodged through the Careers and launched himself into the lake, his body arching in the dawn light before he dives beneath the water. Link's cry of fury becomes one of genuine fear as the mutts are upon them.

I don't even notice my knees failing me as I crash to the ground. _He got away_ I think as the crowd around me cries out in disbelief. _He actually got away. _Two pairs of hands, one small and one large and hard take me by the shoulders and Merrill and Mack haul me up to watch the battle between the mutts and the Careers.

Alabaster never stands a chance. Her sword falls from her shaking hands as a silver mare kicks her down and sinks its fangs into her throat. Her screams turn into a gurgle as the mare rips her throat out and begins to consume her flesh. Link slashes his own sword through the mare's chest, but it's clear that his attempt was futile. Alabaster is dead and Link is soon engaged by the pure white stallion as it barely misses shredding his shoulder.

The Careers have been separated from each other, Quintus and Tara battle three as Romani and Link take on two. Link dispatches another mutt and he and Romani desperately try to take down their last foe so they can reach their allies. Quintus and Tara also put up a good fight, wounding two of the beasts before one of the mutts gets a hold of Tara's wrist. She screams in pain as another mutt grabs the other wrist in its teeth. For a brief moment, we see the wild fear in her eyes as she releases what's about to happen. I turn Merrill's head into my body so he doesn't see the two pony mutts launch themselves in opposite directions wth Tara still caught between them. The mutts drop the bloody pieces of the girl from District 4 and turn on Quintus.

"Link! Romani!" he calls as he desperately tries to hold the mutts off with the axe that until recently had been Devon's. "Help me!"

Romani and Link have finished off the last mutt between them. Link takes in Quintus's dilemma with a sweep of his eyes. "Take the smallest one with your spear," he directs Romani. "I'll go for the big golden one."

Romani looks at the three mutts converging on his ally, and then back at Link. In a moment, what remains of the Career alliance shatters as Romani hurls himself away and dives into the forest. Link watches him go wordlessly until he vanishes into the trees.

"Link! Please!"

Link spares his one-time ally a final glance as the mutts take turns nipping at him and dodging nimbly away from his clumsy swipes with the axe. "I'm sorry," he whispers as he turns away and runs down the shoreline. He doesn't turn as Quintus gives a scream of rage and pain.

The battle between Quintus and the mutts is long and bloody, but the end is inevitable. He's huge and he wields the axe with deadly force if not precision. He manages to kill one mutt before the other two launch themselves at him. His final cries are drowned out as he flails madly with the axe and both mutts give screams of pain. One, both collapse, and then the arena is finally quiet, except for the three cannon blasts that ring out across the arena.

The crowd matches the silence as we wait for confirmation of Blight's survival. There has been no sign of him after he dove into the lake. The cameras flit between the cornucopia, the forest, the tangled ruins of the Giants' City, and the wastelands. All is quiet. All is still. When the sun rose this morning, there were nine tributes left in the arena, and now there are only four. There is no sign of any of them. What more could happen on this day? How much more can the Capitol demand from a day that will surely go down in Hunger Games history?

A pair of feet come into focus. A small figure stumbles through the corpses of the mutts, the dead tributes having been removed by hovercraft. And then he's there. Blight, dripping wet and shivering with cold but very much alive. A collective sigh of relief runs through the district as Blight picks up his staff and razor and the pack that the Careers took from the fountain. He touches the axe that fell when Quintus did, a shadow of grief passing over his face, no doubt as he remembers the horrible end of his only ally. And then there is a sound of clattering stones behind him. Blight freezes, and slowly rises to stand straight. He turns around.

The golden stallion is watching him from fifty yards away, wounded and tired, but very much alive and very much eying Blight with its familiar look of wild hatred.

No. This is too much. How much more can they expect Blight to endure? He's watched a man be tortured to death, he's still wounded from his days in the arena, he nearly drowned in the lake, he's exhausted and a shell of his former self. But the Capitol wants their show. They want to see just how much it takes to break a tree-elf.

Blight drops his staff and pack. He crouches down and picks up the long rope that had tied him to the tree. His eyes never leave the mutt as he quickly knots the rope into a large loop like the one that Devon had utilized with such skill. He takes the lasso and begins swinging it awkwardly, with none of the skill that the boy from District 10 had.

"Come on then, damn you," he whispers, and his voice triggers the beast's instincts as he had intended.

The crowd screams as the mutt bares down on Blight. The look in his eyes is desperate, mad even but he continues to swing the lasso. At the last possible moment, he dodges the insane animal and throws the lasso. By some mad luck, or design of the gods, the lasso catches around the stallion's neck. And the moment that the mutt feels the familiar, hated sensation of that rope, it screams and launches itself away. And Blight, who refuses to let go, is dragged behind it.

I almost have to look away as Blight is quickly reduced to a bruised and bloody mess. The stones and gravel of the arena rip open his skin in what must be a torturous ordeal. The mutt shows no sign of stopping, maddened by the weight around its neck. But it's also wounded and exhausted and its pace quickly slows. Taking advantage of the reduced speed, Blight climbs hand over hand up the rope, and, in one moment where the mutt pauses to change direction, Blight summons all his strength and leaps onto its back.

The stallion screams and rears and Blight is thrown off its back, but he still holds the rope and in a moment he is back on his feet and back on. He wraps his fingers around its mane and despite every mad attempt the mutt can't throw the boy clinging to its back.

"Kill it!" I jump as Mack shouts at the screen besides me. "Kill it Blight! You have the razor! Slice the beast's throat!"

Similar cries of encouragement echo through the square as Blight holds on to the crazed mutt as it bucks and rears around the arena. But Blight makes no effort to withdraw his last weapon. Instead, he strokes the mutt's neck and whispers words we can't hear into its ear. It's familiar. It's what he did when he rode the stallion at the Opening Ceremonies. And I realize just how mad the boy I love is.

"He's not going to kill it," I whisper. "He's trying to tame it."

Mack narrows his eyes at the screen. "That's...that's impossible. It can't be done. He's mad."

"Yes," I say. "Yes he is."

And everyone agrees, from Antonia and Antonius, to the various commentators in the Capitol, to the gathered crowds through the districts who are all shown on the screen as an hour draws by. Blight continues to stay on the mutt, not knowing that he's doing something that's making him a legend throughout Panem. This is a private battle of wills, between the manufactured savagery of the Capitol's mutt and the horse-magic that runs through Blight's veins.

The mutt screams. Rears. Canters around. And finally, breaks. Those watching on the screen can literally see the mutt turn from an insane beast to a docile animal as Blight clings to it. Antonius is speculating that once Blight had broken through the programming that the Capitol designed the mutt to have, it became nothing more than a tame beast. But I hardly hear him as Blight finally falls from its back in exhaustion.

The mutt views him, leans down and nuzzles Blight's face. He doesn't respond. Finally, the mutt nips his shoulder gently, and Blight moans and rolls over. He climbs to his feet and leans against the mutt for support just as an enormous silver parachute lands in front of him.

There is not a sound from the crowd as Blight slowly unwraps the package wrapped in brown paper. Inside are a saddle and reins, stirrups and tack.

Mack gives my shoulders a squeeze. "It worked, son. The donation worked."

A swell of joy and pride rises in my chest, even though I know that it wasn't just the district that helped this happen. The cost of such a gift must be outrageous this late in the game. But it's exactly what Blight needs, and he slowly, painfully saddles his new mount with expert fingers. After he checks the reigns, he looks the mutt straight in its no longer insane eyes.

"Your name is Abel," he tells the stallion. "For you tried to destroy me but you could not succeed." And with that he swings himself up and flicks the reigns, and the stallion obediently carries him back towards the lake. The camera watches him go, and then flashes away. Charlie is sleeping beneath a bush in the wastes. Romani is huddled in a tree in the forest, clearly cold and hungry and at the end of his wits. Link pacing by the cornucopia, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. And then the anthem plays, the seal of Panem flashes across the screen and the broadcast ends.

There is one moment of silence, and then the district erupts into roars and cheers and cries of relief. There are four tributes left and both of ours are still alive. This has never happened in District 7 history. The Peacekeepers are shouting and attempting to restore order, but the Capitol camera crews are eating up what is quickly turning into a wild District 7 celebration.

I want no part of it. I can't laugh and joke and drink when Blight is still in the arena, torn up, bloody, and exhausted. I'll smile again only when I see him back here safely. I disengage myself from Merrill, tell Mack that I'm going home and leave the square.

It's only a short distance from the square to my tiny cabin, but I take a shortcut through an alley nevertheless. I'm nearly to the end when I hear footsteps behind me. I spin around and see two Peacekeepers advancing. I turn around only to find the Peacekeeper who arrested me last week, Tray, blocking my way.

"He's the one," Tray says. "The one Eamon said. Take him."

Blind terror wells up in me and I run for it. I'm shouting for Mack and Core, determined to get back to the square to the protection of Mack's influence, but strong hands grab me and a cloth is pressed against my mouth. I struggle and kick, but I quickly can't feel my body anymore as my vision blacks. I don't even feel myself hit the ground.


	19. Chapter 19

Blight:

The anthem plays. The faces appear. The most of any day since the bloodbath. Alabaster, Quintus, Plautia, Tara, and Devon. My stomach clenches as the final face grins down at me from the sky. I want to tear my eyes away but I don't. I match his artificial gaze, looking into the eyes of the young man who was the only real friend I ever had. Despite what the Hunger Games are meant to do, Devon didn't allow them to succeed. He stayed my friend up to the very end, and in that regards, he beat the Capitol at their own game, and paid the price for it.

The seal of Panem comes and fades, but I hardly notice as the tears I have been withholding all day finally begin to flow down. However much I might be hurting, I know that it's incomparable to what must be going on in District 10 right now. Devon's parents, who by all accounts adored him. His girlfriend, who had to watch the love of her life die in the most horrific way possible. How does someone recover from that? What keeps them from becoming a shattered shell of a human being? I think of Devon's brothers, by all accounts so different from my own. Devon used to tell me stories about their antics during training, trying to elicit a smile from me. He told me all about his brother Dalton, who, like me, is a tree elf. Devon said that Dalton told wild tales of packing up and walking out of District 10 for good. Devon would always shut him up by saying that he had a responsibility to his baby brother. I have to wonder if after today Dalton might seriously run off into the wilds and go towards...who knows where?

I lay my head down on the hard packed earth and let my tears run dry. I don't make a sound, because I refuse to give the Capitol the satisfaction of knowing that they've hurt me so badly, but Abel seems to pick up my mood. The once savage mutt is now as docile as a kitten, and it's rather unnerving. Still, it's comforting in a strange way when that unnatural golden muzzle reaches down and my face is cleaned by Abel's sloppy, but well-meaning tongue.

I'm still not sure how I was able to break the mutt and bring him under my control, but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Literally in this case. Besides, I was at the end of my endurance when the parachute came with the saddle. It was only the immense satisfaction from knowing that the pressure on Eamon had finally reached a breaking point, that he had become forced to send me assistance against his will, that gave me the last burst of energy to saddle Abel and ride off into the northern wastes. I stayed along the lake, filling my water bottles and clumsily using them to clean my wounds, as if my dip in the frigid lake hadn't done enough already. And then, just as I thought I was about to pass out from the pain, another silver parachute came down with a canister of healing cream from the Capitol. Unfortunately, it wasn't the type of medicine that heals your wounds overnight, which at this point at the Games would bankrupt the wealthiest Capitolian. Instead, it sent a numbing sensation throughout my body as I rubbed it on the various cuts and lacerations that I had endured on my wild ride this morning.

I didn't see a soul for the rest of the day. There are four of us left. Me. Link and Romani. Has the alliance shattered? Have each of them realized that they have no food, no supplies, and their allies are dead at the hands of vicious mutts? Will it be long until they encounter one another and face off for the precious few resources that remain? Or will they band together for a little while longer as they try to hunt me down, since I am without a doubt their greatest threat right now. Whatever they try to do in regards to my survival, they won't find it easy. Because now I have Abel. If they come upon me in the night, Abel will rip them apart. If I spot them during the day, I can simply ride off to the other end of the arena before they can say "Tree Elf."

And then there's Charlie. Charlie, whom I haven't seen since we stood at the pedestals in front of the Cornucopia. All I know is that she's alive and she survived the breaking of the alliance with Bobbi and Qin Li. But I haven't seen a trace of her since the Games began. Where has she been this whole time?

I'm almost asleep, but Charlie's face swims in front of my tired mind. I see her how she looked after the interview, lovely and innocent and determined, and the last words we spoke to each other seem to echo through the empty arena.

_"Tomorrow, and the days after."_

_"If it comes down to the two of us and it looks like you can win."_

_"I'll kill you. And if it comes down to the two of us and it looks like you can win."_

_"I'll kill you."_

The last fragment of thought that flashes across my mind is that the Gamemakers might make prophets of us after all.

""""""""""

The next day is unnervingly routine. It's almost as if I'm already back in District 7. If it weren't for the fact that the small bead of ice in my stomach that came during the Reaping is still there. And the enormous ruined city.

I wake up, eat some roots I gathered yesterday, saddle Abel, and ride around the perimeter of the Giants' City into the western part of the arena, the only area I haven't been yet. A part of me is thinking that it's best that I look like I'm doing something, that I have some sort of purpose, before the Gamemakers and the audience get bored again. But somehow I figure that I may have a quiet day in the arena. Yesterday was a bloodbath in and of itself, and surely the Capitol is showing replay after gory replay, caustically analyzing every method in which the Careers tortured Devon to death. And if they grow tired of that, they can always watch me ride around the arena on my pony. The Capitol is infatuated with pretty things and I have every confidence that I look damn fine.

Abel and I spend most of the day scavenging for food. I find a few more roots. I eat a bit of bark. Abel munches on some diseased looking grass and makes a few half-hearted attempts at nabbing a field mouse. The sun begins to set and both of us look at each other. I know we're thinking the same thing. We're starving, and why should we be? We're the best thing that happened to the Hunger Games since Brutus found out that swords are more fun when you don't hold them at the pointy end.

I look up to the sky. "Hey Eamon! If you're not too held up at the moment, I think your star tribute could use something to eat!"

It's almost funny how quickly the parachute comes down. It floats through the sky, landing exactly at my feet. Attached is a fancy silver platter with a cover, probably worth more than half my neighborhood. I pick the platter up and whip off the cover. Inside is a dead rat the size of a stable cat. It's repulsive, but all I can do is laugh because the truth is, I've eaten worse than rat before. When Dad and Jonel and Abel are drunk and shovel down all the tessera grain I've brought home, you'd be surprised how far rotten potatoes and mice can go.

Still, it's odd that Eamon would be so helpful in regards to my injuries and so bitter when it comes to feeding me. Not that Eamon is the most consistent of personalities mind you. Still...

I look up at the sky and take a chance. Hey, what harm can it do? At worst I'm talking to air.

"Hey Jules! Fancy you can do better than my manwhore of a mentor?"

Now this is more like it. The second parachute that comes down has a plate of roast pheasant, baby vegetables in hot butter sauce, even a small bowl of chocolate covered strawberries. So that's where the saddle and the medicine came from! I wonder how much pressure from its citizens caused the Gamemakers to sit Jules into the Control Room and make sure Eamon was doing his job? It's unprecedented, but the number one rule of the Hunger Games is that the audience must be entertained, and the frustration of the Capitol citizens that their donations weren't being used must have hit a breaking point.

I'm almost tempted to tell Jules to send me something ridiculously, outrageously expensive just because he can, but I'm not out of the arena yet and who knows what I could need in the future? A warm glow settles in my stomach. Link could sneak up on me right now and gut me and I wouldn't honestly be as fussed as I would have been yesterday. First off because Abel would rip off his ugly head even as he brought his sword down. And because no matter what happens, I've won my private battle with Eamon. And that's worth a lot.

Abel looks at me with big, mournful eyes and runs his teeth over his sharp fangs. I laugh and toss the rat in his direction. He eagerly catches it in his mouth and gulps it down in a demonstration of brutal carnivourous instinct. I laugh to myself as I curl up against his flank. No need for a fire, Abel's body heat is as warm as the hearth stones back home. Home. Where Jason is waiting for me to return.

Abel's ears suddenly give a twitch. He snorts, and bolts up to his feet. In a moment I'm at his side, staff in one hand and knife in the other. Abel trots over to a small clump of bushes near us, its long shadows in the setting sun making it seem more ominous than non-Hunger Games vegetation. He leans down, sniffs the bushes, and then bares his teeth in a fierce growl.

"Easy boy, easy," I say. "It's probably just a rabbit. Or a mating squirrel." Or a mutt. Or a Gamemaker trap, or Link waiting to ambush us.

I step softly towards the bushes, raising my staff. I stick it sharply into the depth of the branches. Once. Twice. Nothing. And then on the third thrust I hit something soft. Something alive.

With a shriek and a growl, a small animal leaps from the bushes at me. I raise my knife and Abel half rears in fear or anger, but the animal doesn't instantly go for my neck, which makes me think it's not a mutt. And then I see the matted hair, the filthy skin. The clothes are nearly indistinguishable from the layer of mud that coats her. And the eyes, once gentle and kind, now wild and inhuman.

"Oh Charlie," I whisper. "Gods above, Charlie, what have they done to you?"

She's gone feral, that much is clear. The way her eyes dart around, and her fingers claw at the dirt of the arena floor tell me that she's not entirely in command of her mind anymore. She's relying on instinct. Hide and run. Hide and run.

Abel makes a move towards her as she hisses and spits at me. "No Abel! No!" I cry. I kneel down, bringing myself eye level to my district partner.

"Charlie? Charlie, it's me, Blight. Don't you remember? Blight. From home. Home, Charlie. Remember home?"

Charlie looks at me with big, confused eyes, taking in my outstretched hand. Then with a shriek she leaps forward and bites me.

I give a cry of pain that's quickly changed into keeping Abel from ripping Charlie apart. He lunges forwards and kicks her away from me with one of his unearthly screams. Charlie's scream is even higher and more desperate as she darts a few yards away, huddled and gasping, her fingers again digging in the dirt. I wrap my arms around Abel's neck and whisper reassuring words to him.

Charlie ignores us, instead choosing to gobble down the beetles she finds in the dirt. I'm suddenly painfully aware of how much her family is suffering, seeing her like this. And I know what I promised her, the day before we came here. And as much as I prayed it wouldn't happen, it looks like the gods have chosen to test the limits of my mind and heart once again.

I slowly walk up behind Charlie. My last knife is in my hand. She doesn't notice me. Abel is unusually silent, watching me with his black eyes. I tell myself to show no emotion, to not think about what I'm about to do, because if I do then all my resolve will disappear in a heartbeat, and that won't do Charlie or myself any good in the end.

So no tears come down as I stand behind where Charlie is huddled in the dirt. My face is unreadable as I raise the knife high above my head. But I can't help but whisper "I'm so, so sorry," as I pray that the gods forgive me for what I am about to do.

Trumpets blast across the arena. Charlie gives a squeal and darts off faster than I would have thought possible. My knife comes down into the dirt. I barely have a moment to register what just happened when Antonia's voice is echoing through the arena.

"Congratulations to the final four contestants of the Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games! Congratulations on making it this far! Your courage, bravery, and sacrifice have been admired and celebrated across Panem! But we have seen that some of you are in dire need of assistance, and we would like to reward your persistence. I invite you now, to look up into the sky!"

I roll my eyes at the theatricality of it all, but nevertheless look up to where the death recap is played each night. A picture is shown in the darkening sky, or rather a live video feed of a part of the arena. It shows the pier that the Hunger Games began on, where the Cornucopia and the gigantic metal wheel sits silently. Although this is no longer the case. The wheel is turning slowly, rotating around and around. Antonius pick up where his partner left off.

"We invite you to a Feast at the Ferris Wheel! At dawn, the pier will once again be accessible to all tributes. Until that time, we urge you to prepare to claim your bounty. We will see you at the Ferris Wheel at dawn, and may the odds be ever in your favor. Until then, enjoy this preview of what awaits you there!"

The voices die away, but the image remains. The wheel is about sixty feet high and has thirty or so tiny huts or cars attached to it that rotate with the wheel. Inside each car is the bounty that awaits. The camera zooms closer and we can see inside the individual cars. Some have food. Others have weapons. Others, white cases of medicine. It's enough to lure any desperate tribute with its promise of survival.

Except me. It's obvious that the Gamemakers are trying to lure the tributes together to bring an end to the Hunger Games. But there is no reason for me to attend this feast at the Ferris Wheel. I can gather my own food, I have my staff and my knife, I'm not dying of injury, and most importantly, I have Abel. There is nothing that the Gamemakers could tempt me with that would make me willing to ride into that deathtrap. And then the last car comes into view. And I don't even notice when my knife drops from my nerveless fingers.

There's no food in the last car. No medicine. No weapons. There's a person there, a person bound and gagged, lying on the floor of the car, seemingly unconscious. I don't have to see the muscled build, the shock of blond hair, the boyish face that once grinned at me in the stables and looked at me in quiet desperation in the Justice Building.

My voice escapes me in a hiss. "Eamon, you indescribable bastard." The picture fades. Night falls. I stand there for what must be hours. Frozen in shock and fear and burning anger. This is my fight. It was always my fight. But now they've brought it too far.

Abel nuzzles my shoulder, and I look him in the eyes. "Are you ready to kick some Career ass, my friend?" Abel gives a whinny of approval.

I don't bother packing up my camp. There is nothing here I'm going to need anymore. I simply saddle Abel, pick up my staff and my knife, and mount the golden mutt. The Giants' City is just visible in the last light of the sunset as Abel and I ride towards the cornucopia, to bring an end to these Hunger Games.


	20. Chapter 20

Jason:

My head hurts. A lot. I'll admit, I've had my share of hangovers during the course of my rather short life, it's unavoidable when you're friends with the Gavin brothers. But I've never experienced something like this. It feels like there's a knot of pain throbbing in the back of my skull, my whole body aches, and my eyes are seared by the bright sunlight glinting through the tiny window of my bedroom. My bed feels like metal, and whole room has the strange sensation that I'm rocking back and forth slightly. It must have been one hell of a night.

Despite myself, I manage to open my eyes all the way. It's early morning, I can tell by the way the sun is rising over the lake.

The lake.

My skull throbs violently as I attempt to climb to my feet. My cry of pain is muffled by the cloth gagging my mouth. I lose my balance and tumble back down, unable to support myself as both of my hands are bound at the wrists in front of me. Slowly, I take stock of my surroundings. I'm in some sort of enclosed metal hut, the features of which have been rusted with age. The contraption is swaying slightly back and forth, and unless I'm still dizzy, I suspect that it's rising up into the air. The hut is tiny, barely six feet across either way and about as tall. For someone built as big as me, it provides the uncomfortable feeling of being a chicken in a cage. On both sides of the hut are two short metal benches. I manage to use one to pull myself up and sit down. I look out towards the lake and the rising sun, completely at a loss to how I got here. Then I look in the other direction and my heart drops into my stomach.

It's the Giants' City. Oh gods, I'm in the arena.

And it rushes back to me, the celebration in 7, the Peacekeepers in the alley, the cloth pressed against my mouth. My first thought is that this isn't fair. I made it through the reapings! I'm nineteen, I'm not supposed to be here! It's not fair!

_Calm down Jason,_ I think. There has to be a rational explanation for this. Whatever the case may be, the first thing I need to do is get myself out of this contraption. I peer out the windows of the small hut and see that it's attached to the massive metal wheel on the pier where the Games began almost two weeks ago. Sure enough I can see the Cornucopia at the far end of the rubble that covers the surface of the pier. My hut is one of about thirty that are all rotating in a slow massive circle. I do a quick calculation and figure that I have about two minutes before my hut reaches the bottom, where I can roll off and try to find some way out of this mess.

I wait for the hut to reach the peak of the wheel's height and then begin its slow descent. My stomach is twisting and turning in fear because I have never, ever been this high off the ground before. I'm much farther up than the tallest trees in District 7. I struggle to my feet as the rotation nears its lowest point and brace myself to jump. The hut swings down, I tense my muscles to make a jump, and then the most painful sensation I've ever experienced rips through my body, setting my nerves on fire and leaving me curled and twitching on the floor as the hut begins to rise again.

A pleasant female voice echoes through the wheel as I lay on the cold metal, sweat pouring down my face, gasping for breath. "Welcome Jason! Please do not attempt to exit your car on the Ferris Wheel. You are in no danger. Thank you for participating in Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games!"

By the time I've made it to my feet again, the hut, or car, or whatever this is has begun its descent again. This time I'm determined. Mysterious voice or no, I'm getting off this thing if it's the last thing I do. This time, I'm determined to catch them unawares. I wait until the car is fifteen feet from the ground. I know it'll hurt but I bolt forward, ready to leap out, when the pain rips through me again, this time greatly intensified. I'm on the floor again, and even the gag over my mouth can't completely muffle the screams that wrack my aching body. I curl into a ball, trying to will my body to relax and recover from the pain, but all I feel is the aftereffects of the lances of fire that seemed to torch me.

The voice comes again. "Welcome Jason! Please do not attempt to exit your car on the Ferris Wheel. A small tracker has been placed in your body. This tracker will administer a mild disabling shock if you attempt to exit or interfere in the Games in any way. This precaution is for your protection. We assure you that you are in no danger. Thank you for participating in the Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games!"

I don't know how long I lay there for. My body refuses to cooperate with me, but my mind is racing. I'm in the arena. I have to stay in the Ferris Wheel or risk unbearable pain. The Capitol claims I'm in no danger. This might be a lie, but it also means I'm not here to compete, because the Capitol never denies that twenty-three kids die here every year. So if I'm not here to fight for my life, then why-?

And then it comes to me in a flash of understanding. Blight. I'm here for Blight. They know that Blight isn't in need of food or weapons, and so they've put me here for him. Somehow the Capitol found out about us, about how we feel about each other, and they're using me as bait. I want to climb to the top of the Ferris Wheel and scream "Don't do it Blight, stay away!" but I suspect that that would definitely fall under the category of "interference." My sense of unfairness doubles, but this time it's on my friend's behalf. Why is everything - everything - always stacked against Blight? The district, his mentor, the Careers, the mutts, and now this. The Gamemakers are surely pushing him to the very limits of his considerable mental constitution in their efforts to provide sufficient entertainment for the crowd.

As my car on the Ferris Wheel reaches the bottom of the rotation, my eyes fly open at the sound of something other than the creaking of the rusty Ferris Wheel. Someone is climbing over the rubble, coming towards me. I manage to pull myself up and peer over the side of the car. I'm desperately hoping that it's not Blight, but at the same time I can't deny that just the sight of him alive and breathing would be a welcome relief. To my horror, I see Link, the maniac from District 1 standing about forty yards from the wheel. I duck back down before he sees me. Link is carrying a spear and a sword and he is clearly guarding the entrance of the pier, ready to cut down the other three tributes. There's no sign of Blight, Charlie, or the other bloke, the one from 4 whose name I can't remember. I lean against the metal side, praying that Blight isn't stupid enough to fall for the Gamemaker's ploy. I suspect that the other cars hold food and other supplies to lure the tributes into the final conflict. Just my rum luck that I got caught up in it.

A demented scream rips through the arena, a sound that gave me goosebumps even hearing it through the screens at the Tav. I leap to my feet, ignoring my body's protests. I look out towards the Giants' City and immediately see the distinctive golden coat of the mutt called Abel. It's racing towards the pier with the speed of a ghost out of the Dark Forest. And on its back, staff in hand, with a look of grim determination, is Blight.

The rising car takes me higher and higher, but I can still see the scene playing out below me. Link is clearly unnerved by the approaching mutt, no doubt remembering the gruesome deaths of three of his allies. Still, you don't get to be a Career by being a coward, and Link braces himself to take down the approaching juggernaut. He never stands a chance. The mutt sees him, and despite Blight's attempts at control it veers towards him. Link thrusts his spear at the horse and rider, trying to gut it through. Abel rears in fury and lashes out with his front hooves. One of them catches Link on the head and he collapses like a rag doll. There's no cannon, so he's not out permanently, but he's down for the running. I want to yell at Blight to finish him off while he has the chance, but Abel dashes towards the Ferris Wheel. Blight pulls off one of his trademark impossible feats of riding prowess and stands on the saddle, staff still in hand. For a moment, mutt and man disappear from my sight beneath the wheel. Then Abel canters out on the other side, riderless.

"Get out of here Abel!" I hear Blight call from somewhere below me. The mutt whickers in concern. "Just go! Go! I don't want you here anymore! Please go!"

Abel gives one scream of agitation and then gallops off towards the end of the pier. Long minutes pass as I search for any sign of Blight. I suspect that he leapt from the saddle into the complex metal braces that make up the Ferris Wheel, but I can't see him anywhere.

And then he swings into the car and my breath catches in my throat. He's so different from the angry, beaten boy I last saw in the Justice Building. He's filthy, his clothes are torn, the evidence of his many injuries mar his body. But he moves differently, like a man who has suffered the worst a man can suffer and endured it. His blue-grey eyes are the same as always, and they look at me with a combination of joy and sorrow that light a fire in my belly, and I suddenly feel like nothing can hurt me as long as I never lose sight of this sixteen year old boy again.

"Jason. Oh, Jason. Gods, I'm so sorry." He pulls a knife from his belt and cuts the gag from my mouth.

"Blight! Blight, I-"

"No." His hands holding my face are as gentle as his voice is firm. "Don't talk. I'm going to get you out of here." And then he throws his arms around me and pulls me close as if he's never going to let go again, which is fine by me. "This is all my fault. I'm sorry, this is all my fault."

"No, Blight, none of this is-"

"Yes! Yes it is!" The words are torn from his mouth as he looks at me in desperation. "It was that letter! That stupid letter that Eamon made me write before the Games!" That's how, that how they knew that you were the only one I would come for-" He cuts himself off and starts cutting through the bonds at my wrist. "Well, I'm getting you out of here now."

Only one thing he says has any effect on me. "You wrote me a letter?"

Blight looks at me and despite everything, the danger and horrors of the past three weeks since the Reaping, I still see that fire I fell in love with in the exasperated look he gives me. "Yes mate, I wrote you a letter, but I don't think this is exactly the right time to discuss it."

"Oh. Yeah right. Escape first. Then talk." I clear my throat. "So...um...did it say anything...nice?"

"Jason!"

"Shutting up."

Still I see a smile across his face, a smile that is quickly cut off as a dark shadow looms in the doorway as we reach the bottom of the rotation.

"Blight! Look out-!"

The tracker sends another electrical shock through my body as the boy from District 4 grabs Blight by the neck. He's strong, but he's been weakened by days of starvation, and Blight is able to wrench himself from his grasp even as I collapse again. The car begins another ascent and I look up just in time to see the District 4 boy gain the upper hand again. Blight's eyes meet mine, the knife flies from his grasp and embeds itself in the floor besides me as the boy from 4 hurls him out of the car to fall to the ground far below.

"""""""""

Blight:

I only have time to register the vague awareness that I'm falling to my death when I hit the ground much sooner than I expected. The wind is knocked out of me, and I'm coughing my still not fully healed lungs out, but I'm not otherwise harmed. I immediately realize that I've landed on the roof of a car a couple below where Jason is. It seems that despite it all the goddess Starbucks continues to see me out of the corner of her eye, and I breathe a silent prayer of thanks.

"Blight! Blight!" I can hear Jason yelling above me.

"I'm okay!" I shout back. That's all I have time for as Romani leaps down towards me.

I roll away but space on the roof of the car is limited. My hands are empty, as my staff fell from my grip as I fell and I remember hearing it shatter on the ground below me. Even as Romani lands in front of me, I'm swinging down into the car below me which by some great fortune is one that contains a supply of weapons. My hands close around an axe and I turn just in time to see that Romani has followed me and grabbed a machete. Metal meets metal as we block each other's swings and desperately try to land the killing blow. Romani is vastly superior to me in training, but I'm healthier and not starving. Still, I need more room to maneuver, so I swing back out and scramble onto the roof of the car.

Sure enough, Romani follows me, and I'm sure that all of Panem is fixed to the sight of two boys fighting seventy or eighty feet above the ground on a slowly turning Ferris Wheel. There's no more running now, no Abel to carry me to safety, no tree to climb, no lake to dive into. It's time to end this.

"Give up, 7," Romani mutters. "Just let me finish this. I just want to go home."

"We all do, 4," I reply. "But after what you did to Plautia and Devon, it's not going to be you."

"I'm not dead yet," he says. "And you have to watch out for your boyfriend down there as well." He nods down below us. I glance down and see that Jason has used my last knife to free himself as I intended and has stumbled out of the car. And that's just enough time for me to realize that I've made my third mistake in the arena as I look back up to see the machete swinging towards me.

Only a desperate parry with the axe saves my life, but it's deflected badly and instead bites into my shoulder. I cry out in pain and I can hear Jason shouting below me. Romani gives me a shove and his greater strength sends me flying to the ground below. Fortunately it's a short way and I manage to roll away and avoid injury for the second time. Jason is at my side, but before he can pull me up he gives an inexplicable cry of pain and jerks away from me, holding his head in his hands.

The car reaches its lowest point and Romani prepares to jump down and finish me off when something completely unexpected happens. With a wild scream, Charlie crawls out of the car and onto the roof. I don't know how or when she got here or why she was hiding in one of the cars, but it's enough to take Romani off guard. The car slowly rises again as he grapples with his new opponent. He's got the machete and the training, but Charlie's wild insanity gives her an unexpected strength as she grabs his wrists and attempts to sink her teeth into his throat. Unable to rip his throat out, she bites his wrist and Romani drops the machete with a howl.

All Jason and I can do is watch as the car rises higher and higher. And then as it reaches the apex of the rotation, Romani gains the upper hand. He grabs her by the throat and pulls her to the edge of the car. But the moment he gives the final shove, Charlie's body relaxes, her screams soften, and I know instinctively that in this final moment, her mind has cleared, and she knows who and where she is. In one last act of desperation, even as she flies of the edge of the Ferris wheel, Charlie reaches out and grabs Romani's shirt, pulling with all her strength. For a few short seconds, Romani's screams echo through across the lake as my enemy and my beautiful district partner plunge to the ground. Jason looks away before they hit. I don't.

""""""""""

Jason:

I hardly knew Charlie, but the faces of her father and older sister are in my mind as two cannons blast across the lake. The sorrow is quickly replaced by the knowledge that only one person stands between Blight and victory. Just one.

"Jason..." Blight is staggering towards me, holding his shoulder.

"Blight! Are you okay? Is it bad?"

He shakes his head. "It's not deep, it just hurts like all gods damned." He looks at me with a small grin that quickly changes to fear. "Jason! Get down!"

Before I can react, I'm pushed roughly aside and I stumble to the ground. I hear the hiss of a sword swinging through the air. I look up to see Blight desperately backing up as Link advances towards him, his head still bleeding from Abel's hoof. He's swinging his sword wildly with one hand and thrusting with the spear with the other. Apparently all thought of form or elegance is forgotten as he screams at Blight, calling him a filthy elf, bastard, and every foul name from District 1 he can think of. Blight ducks and weaves, managing to stay out of reach of both weapons, but he's not armed and he's slowly being backed towards the edge of the pier.

A low buzzing rips painfully through my head, not enough to send me to the ground again, but clearly a warning that I am not supposed to interfere in the finale of the Hunger Games. All I can do is watch helplessly as Blight is forced towards the very side of the pier. He doesn't reply to the names Link is calling him, choosing to concentrate on staying out of his reach. Occasionally he'll duck down and grab a stone from the rubble, hurling it at his opponent. Link dodges most easily. And then Blight runs out of room and only has time for one last defiant look as Link bears down on him.

Link is totally focused on Blight. Blight is totally focused on Link. I am totally focused on both of them. And so none of us notice the golden mutt barreling towards Link and Blight until it gives a scream of rage not ten yards from them. Both boys look up in astonishment, and Link barely has time to spin around and thrust forward with his spear. Blight dashes from the edge of the pier and turns just in time to see Link gut Abel through the heart. The mutt gives a last scream and a shudder as it collapses to the ground. Its momentum carries Link down as well. He stands up and rips the spear from Abel's body and tosses it aside. He looks across the corpse towards his opponent. Blight has pulled a long, thin tube of metal from the rubble, very similar to the wooden staff he carried for all of the Games. The two boys look at each other for a moment in mutual hatred. And then they're upon each other, sword on staff, sparks flying, and all I can do is watch.

Each swing of the sword is an attempt to slice through Blight's flesh. Each blow of the staff is an attempt to bash Link's head in. These two have moved far beyond the typical battles of the Hunger Games. The injuries they have done to each other gives each blow the strength of fury. This isn't District 1 verses District 7. This isn't tribute verses tribute. This is personal. This is Link verses Blight. Winner take all.

""""""""

Blight:

I've somehow managed to go through the entire Games without directly taking a life once, but that's over now. As I look at Link, as I block and parry and attempt to knock him down, my blood surges with the desire to kill him. For Devon. For Plautia. For Abel. And because I can't attack Eamon or the Capitol for Jason's sake, I take all my anger and hatred on them out on him.

I know exhaustion has come but I feel strangely relaxed and calm as I drive Link towards the lake in a reversal of a few minutes ago. His blows become more desperate, and mine become stronger as I taste the victory that I know is close. Link is at the end of the pier now. He swings his sword towards my head. I block it easily, and then swing my staff up to knock his weapon from his hand. For a moment, we look into each other's eyes.

"I will always hate you, elf," he says.

"I'm not sorry about this" I reply, and I strike a blow across his chest, knocking him into the frigid lake.

For a moment he surfaces, frantically waving his hands. "I can't swim! Please! I don't want to die! I don't-" And then he disappears below the surface.

""""""""

Jason:

The buzzing in my head stops even as Link falls into the lake. It's over. It's finally over. I approach Blight as he kneels in front of Abel's body, his eyes closed in a silent thanks to his friend.

"Blight."

"Jason."

And then he's in my arms, and I'm holding him close. "It'll be all over soon," he says. "I don't know how long it takes to drown, but it'll be soon."

"Blight, I'm sorry. For everything."

"Me too."

I look him in the eyes, determined to tell him this, not caring that all of Panem is watching. "Blight, I-"

"Don't," he says.

"Don't what?"

"Call me that."

"What?"

"Blight."

"That's your name."

"No," he says. "My father called me Blight after my mother disappeared. The Blight of his life, he called me. That's not my real name." He pulls me closer so his mouth is by my ear so only I can hear his whisper. "My name is Levi."

"I love you, Levi." I whisper back.

I don't know how long I hold him. I don't care. A couple of minutes. A lifetime. Not long enough. But too long.

Blight jerks away from me as he comes to the same realization. "It doesn't take this long to drown," he says. And then we're both knocked to the ground.

""""""""

Blight:

This is the worst moment of my life. I'm lying on the ground, looking up as Link stands above me, dripping wet but very much alive. He's looking at me with unadulterated hatred, his sword pointed at me. It's quivering as if it can't decide where exactly it would hurt most to cut me. And then Jason stumbles to his feet behind me and Link turns around and I can see him realize exactly where that sword would hurt me the most.

I have four seconds before everything I have left comes crashing down. Link turns away from me, his sword angled not at me but at the man standing behind him. His muscles tense as he braces for the swing. The sun shines brightly down upon a man about to murder, a man about to be murdered, and a man about to die in every other way possible.

Three seconds. Jason knows what's about to happen. He sees Link turning towards him, sees the blade as it begins the wide arc towards his body. And he chooses not to watch it, but instead to look at me, and in his eyes I see everything he always wanted to say to me and that no matter what, in this moment I am loved more than any other man in Panem.

Two seconds. I roll over. My fingers wrap around the spear that took Abel's life, that Link tossed so casually aside. In one movement I rise to my feet, hurl the spear through the air, and become the Victor of the Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games.

Just a half second too late.


	21. Chapter 21

Blight:

How many days have I been laying here? Two, three, ten? I keep my eyes shut because when I open them, I see the walls of my room in the Training Center closing in on me. I'm lying on my soft bed in the room I spent the week before the Games. The room where my mother came to visit me in the dead of night. Where she gave me Jason's coin.

And when I close my eyes, the nightmares return.

Jason is dead. And it's all my fault.

No matter how hard I try, how long I lay awake staring at the stark ceiling above me, that last moment runs through my head over and over again. I watch the spear fly from my hand. I remember how it soared through the air to embed itself in Link's back. I watched as the boy from District 1 collapsed, his body falling across Jason's fallen corpse. My throat is still torn from the screaming as I watched the blood soaking through both of their clothes. My hands still burn with the last warmth of Jason's body that I felt as I pulled Link off him, as I held his limp form in my arms and begged and pleaded with him not to leave me. I told him that I loved him, I sobbed it over and over again even as Antonia and Antonius sounded the trumpets and announced me as the Victor of the Fifty Second Annual Hunger Games.

All for nothing. All for naught. Because even as I held him, the hovercraft appeared above us and three claws reached down. The first snatched up Link's body, and then the second and third came and pulled me from Jason. I fought and struggled even as he was torn from my grasp, and the last thing I remember was watching Jason's body dangling hundreds of feet above the ground, looking like no more than a tiny rag doll, pulled away from me forever.

I don't remember the trip back to the Capitol. I was unconscious for most of it, although I'm fairly certain that I destroyed a good amount of important and expensive machinery before they were able to sedate me. As the morphling took hold, I collapsed into a merciful state of unconsciousness, Jason's name still on my lips.

And then I ended up back here, in this hellish place. This luxurious prison. I jerk awake for what must be the tenth time tonight, screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to rid myself of Plautia's accusing eyes, Devon's mangled body, Chip's final scream of despair as he's blasted into a million pieces. It doesn't matter if I manage to banish Jason from my thoughts. There are twenty three other faces to take his place.

The television against the far wall is turned on. Naturally, the only thing playing is recaps of the most recent Games. My eyes focus on the screen just in time to see Alabaster gut the boy from District 8 with a spear as Charlie dashes away from her. Seeing Charlie causes another cry of despair to break from my lips and I grab a vase of flowers from my bedside table and hurl it at the screen. My weakness is frightening and the vase doesn't even manage to strike the wall. It falls to the floor and shatters, scattering water and roses across the carpet.

I hear the song of running feet. I don't care. I stare blankly ahead as a female Avox, the only individual I've seen since I returned to the Capitol, dashes into the room. She's holding a tray bearing the meager food I've been allowed. She takes in the broken vase and the television in one swift sweep of her amber colored eyes. Stepping over the mess she switches of the screen and places the tray of food next to the untouched one on my bedside table. She begins picking up the broken ceramic pieces and the soaking flowers. Her presence is painful, and I want to scream at her to get out. It's almost as if she knows this, because she looks up and meets me square in the eyes. There's nothing to say to each other, but the sight of her with the broken vase reminds me sharply that many things in this room have been broken, not just me.

The painful moment is shattered by the arrival of Madame Lucia. She steps into my room with that graceful dignity that I was struck by the moment I saw her sweeping towards me in the Remake Center. She doesn't spare the Avox a second glace but instead heads straight for my bed. She sits on the side and gathers my small, emaciated body into her chest and holds me. I don't know whether she expects me to cry or sob or show some sort of emotion. If so, she's going to be disappointed. No tears have come, and I don't expect that they ever will. They've been locked into a place deep within me where I refuse to go. But Lucia won't let go, and after a few long minutes, I slowly wrap my arms around her and squeeze, and after I've begun, it's the most difficult thing to let go.

Finally, Lucia breaks the death grip we have on each other and points to the food on the table beside me. "Eat, my child," she says. She gives me a pointed look and gets off of my bed. She sets herself on the couch near the door and bizarrely takes two needles and yarn from her small handbag and begins to knit. I watch the needles clacking together for a few moments, unnerved to see Madame Lucia do something so...un-Capitol.

She feels my eyes on her and looks up. "Eat!" she commands, pointing at the tray again. The voice that sends stylists scurrying and prep teams cowering in fear is enough to jolt me into action. I take the bowl of spicy tomato soup and slowly begin to eat. Just a few bites are enough to send me spiraling into exhaustion again, but this time the sleep is natural rather than morphling-induced. I set the bowl down and drift off to sleep, the sound of screaming pony mutts already ringing in my ears.

I'm awakened what must be only a few hours later by a voice shouting outside my door. I jerk up in bed, looking over to the couch just in time to see Lucia put away her needles and stand in confusion. A rush of noise envelopes me as the door bursts open and people stream in.

Tutti Marble is first, all dolled up in magenta, and it's her that's shouting. "Where is he? Is he alright? Is he alive?" Then she sees me and she lets out a wail that rings through my ears. Tutti dashes over and hugs me, sobbing that she had never had a tribute like me and that she was so grateful that I was going to be alive for the Victory Tour in six months, and that everyone was sure that I was going to be butchered so many times over the past two weeks but she always stood by and believed in me.

"Tutti, child, please!" says Madame Lucia. "Madame Lucia knows that you are grateful to see Blight alive, but please try to withhold your usual hysterics for a couple of moments so that the boy can continue to breathe!" Nevertheless, it's with surprising gentleness that Lucia takes Tutti's shoulders and leads her away from me, offering her a handkerchief to wipe her tears. Tutti gives a mutter of thanks and takes the handkerchief, and I realize with a jolt that watching the Hunger Games may have brought these one-time rivals together into something approximating friendship.

I look over to the far wall where Jules and Vera are watching me with anxious eyes.

"Jules," I say, remembering the saddle and the medicine and the food. "Thanks. For everything."

Jules nods. "You did well, kid. Yah made us all proud."

My eyes move over to where Vera is crying silently. You'd think that mentoring the Games for nearly thirty five years would make someone immune to losing tributes year after and year, but Charlie and Vera seemed to have a special bond. I believe that Vera had genuinely hoped against hope that Charlie would make it back, a hope that would have intensified as she reached the final four, only to be dashed to pieces along with her tribute at the bottom of the Ferris wheel.

Slowly I struggle out of my bed. Lucia gives a hiss of disapproval and attempts to push me back down but I take her hand and firmly grip it as I pull myself up. The Avox comes over and takes my other hand, and slowly I rise to my feet. I mutter my thanks to both of them and slowly step over to Vera. We take each other in our arms and we share a moment, our grief over beautiful Charlie unbroken between us.

I look at my little welcoming committee. Lucia, Vera, Tutti, Jules. There's someone missing, his absence making him all the more conspicuous.

"Where's Eamon?" I ask, and from the looks that the others shoot each other, I can tell that the ice in my voice must be terrible.

"No one knows," says Vera.

"Someone does," I say. "Someone has to. And I'm going to find out who."

"He disappeared after the end of the Games," says Tutti, a worried look in her eyes as she watches my face. "No one has seen a sight of him since."

"Well then help me get dressed. Because I'm going to hunt through every bar and club in this city until I find him and tear him apart piece by bloody piece."

"Madame Lucia has been instructed to make sure that you don't attempt anything that might tire you," says Lucia quickly. "And bloody murder qualifies as tiring, no matter how much it may be deserved."

"I'd like to see you try and stop me," I hiss as I stumble around the room. "Where are my shoes? And my knives?"

Lucia sends Tutti a quick look. They must have planned for just this eventuality, because no sooner to I make a mad break for the door than Lucia has both my wrists in her strong hands and Tutti sticks a needle of morphling into my neck. She squeals, no doubt from the effort of doing something so physical and daring, and blackness clouds my vision even as I feel myself fall. The last thing I remember before unconsciousness falls is Jules speaking in my ear.

"We'll find him, boy," he says. "Don't you worry. We'll find him for you."

I spend the next couple of days locked in my room, but slowly the lethargy is beginning to wear off even if the grief only intensifies. I spend time pacing the room, trying to bring my legs back to the point where I trust them to carry me without trembling. Lucia and Tutti and the District 7 Victors visit occasionally, but we rarely speak. Each time I wake up, I notice that the scars on my body have disappeared more and more. I accumulated quite a few injuries in my time in the arena, from being stabbed and bitten and dragged behind Abel and having my lungs lacerated by bits of sharp rubble, but slowly the marks of pain and misery are wiped clean from my body.

One morning, I'm examining my chest, trying to find any trace of my time in the arena left on me. There's nothing. I look up as someone enters the room and see that Lucia has slipped into the room. She's wearing more makeup than usual, her face stark white with powder.

"The Victory Celebration is tomorrow night," she says, wringing her hands. I don't look at her, instead staring intensely at the black screen of my television. "Blight," she says, and something in her voice draws me to her. Her eyes are darting around and I see that her face is white not with powder, but with fear. "There's someone who would like to see you. Why don't you get dressed and come out into the sitting room?" She sweeps out of the room, leaving me standing, unnerved at the thought of what could make my formidable stylist tremble like an aspen leaf in the wind. I throw on a deep green shirt and brown pants and step outside of my room for the first time in days.

I walk into the sitting room. There, sitting on the white couch, sipping a glass of wine, is President Snow.

I feel as though a stone has been hurled into my stomach. The most powerful man in the world is looking at me with those terrifying eyes, legs crossed and arm thrown across the couch as if he didn't have a care in the world. His golden hair has white streaks that match the couch and his thick lips twist into a smile when he sees me.

"Ah, Mr. Gavin, the man of the hour. Come, why don't you take a seat?"

As if I had a choice. Slowly I sink down into the couch, as far away as I can manage without making it look like the thought of being physically near this man repulses me. "You wanted to see me, Mr. President?" I ask, and I thank the gods that my voice is strong and steady. Snow surely knows that I am afraid, but I'm not going to make whatever purpose has brought him here easy.

"Yes, Mr. Gavin, I think a little talk between us is necessary. But first," he raises a hand and the female Avox appears. "Refreshments, please. And have the new Avox in your group bring some as well." The Avox nods and silently disappears, and Snow turns back to me. "Before you say anything, why don't we agree to be completely honest with each other? I have to deal with enough double-talk here in the Capitol and I believe that this will save us valuable time."

I have no idea what Snow means by 'double-talk,' but I nod my head in agreement anyway. "Yes, I believe that would be for the best," I say.

Snow chuckles. "I like you, Mr. Gavin. I like you quite a bit, actually."

"That's a shame," I reply. "I must admit that any similar affection from my part is a long time in coming."

At this Snow laughs outright. "Your tongue hasn't been dulled by the arena. That's good to know. No, Blight, you were my favorite tribute this year. My favorite in quite some time actually. You were one of the most entertaining competitors the Hunger Games have ever seen. Naturally, after a Quarter Quell things seem dull for a few years, especially last year when Lyme sliced her way to a scowling victory, but you almost singlehandedly returned the novelty and the excitement to the Hunger Games in a way that left the mindless droves of people here screaming in delight."

"Thank you, sir. I must say though, I can't imagine you're just here to congratulate me on my exploits. You could have done that at the Victory Ceremony tomorrow night."

The smile stays on the president's face, but his eyes glint dangerously. "Very astute, boy. The fact of the matter is, while you were very popular with the crowds and I admired your performance in the arena, you've also created a few spots of difficulty for me."

"Really?" I ask as I raise an eyebrow in the gesture that I picked up from Madame Lucia. "That's quite frankly hard to believe, but I must say it gives me some small sense of satisfaction."

"No doubt, no doubt," says Snow. "But I believe that you'll agree that certain situations still need to be remedied. First of all, there was your performance with the mutt Abel. Do you remember how Haymitch Abernathy won the Quarter Quell two years ago?"

"Yes," I say. "He used the force field at the border of the arena to deflect an ax back into the head of a Career girl."

"And thus made the Capitol look like a fool. The arena is meant to be a symbol of Capitol control, not a tool that tributes use to fight their opponents. The force field was never meant to be a weapon. And in the same way, mutts were never meant to be tamed."

Here he gives me a sharp glance, but I don't reply and he continues. "In the case of Mr. Abernathy, there was no way to spin his trick to make up for the foolishness in which he portrayed us. You on the other hand are different. The mutt breeders, those who still have their jobs and their lives after your little trick, have given interviews about how they created the mutts with the ability to be tamed and released them on you to see if you could take advantage of the opportunity. The Capitol and districts have accepted this without question. In fact, a roaring trade has developed with miniature, domestic versions of your Abel being sold to fancy Capitol ladies. So, in the end, no harm done. You're a lucky man in this respect, Mr. Gavin."

His eyes glint as he leans towards me. "But there is a second problem, one that stems from you, even though you had no direct hand in its development. Can you guess what I'm referring to?"

I don't even have to think about it. "Let me guess. It's because I'm a tree-elf."

Snow nods. "Very good. Your coming out at the interview as, as you call it, a tree-elf, garnered you quite a bit of support here in the Capitol, as I'm sure those lovely gifts you received were evidence of. You see Mr. Gavin, your sexual preferences don't matter to me, and they don't matter to anyone in the Capitol. However, tree elves, or rather men who prefer other men and women who prefer other women, are quite prevalent here, much more so than the Districts where it's seen as less acceptable. They encompass stylists, Gamemakers, escorts, politicians, businessmen, bankers, socialites, and people of great influence and outspoken opinions."

"And let me guess. You're afraid that I'm going to use this against you in some way?"

"This community of people now see you as a mascot of sorts. A representative in the Victor's Circle. They have gathered around you in very vocal support.

"Now, Mr. Gavin, when I first took office as President fifteen years ago, I had many detractors. Many people who worked to block my ideas and my coming into this office. Over the past fifteen years, my tireless efforts to transform Panem into a model society has turned many of them to support me. Many. But not all. And some of these people who work against me at every opportunity are the same people who are now clamoring with support for you."

"I didn't ask for this."

"I know you didn't Mr. Gavin, but we rarely ask for the things in life that come to us. You should know that better than most. The fact of the matter is, with the influence and affect you have, you could become dangerous, very dangerous to the stability of Panem with just a word, or a sentence, or the impression that you support the opinions of the wrong person. And no matter how much I may like you, I cannot allow this to happen."

Finally, I see what this is all about. Apparently I have some sort of following in the Capitol and Snow is worried that I might use my influence to disrupt his precious hold on the country. So here he is on the couch, using polite words to illustrate just how precarious the threads holding my life have become.

"So, Mr. President, you're here to threaten me unless I agree to cooperate with you?"

"Oh, 'threaten' is such a common word, although yes that's the essence of it. Let's just say that I'm here to make a mutually beneficial arrangement. You agree to support the current regime with every word you speak and public appearance you make here in the Capitol. In return, I ensure that everyone you care about back home stays safe and comfortable, without you having to worry about anything unfortunate happening to them."

I laugh here, and it's clear that it's not the reaction that Snow was expecting. He must be used to people cowering in fear when he offers 'mutually beneficial arrangements.' "Intriguing, Mr. President, but it falls flat on one point. There is no one left whom I care about staying safe and comfortable. After what's happened in the past three weeks, do you really imagine I care whether District 7 burns to the ground?"

"So there's no one left that you feel you need to protect?"

"Not a one, I must say."

"What about your lover? The young man named Jason?"

Hearing Jason's name from this man's lips is like a blow, and I briefly see his body being raised into the hovercraft once again. "Jason is dead," I spit with more venom than I intended. "Link killed him, he died in your precious Hunger Games, and I don't see why you would need to bring him up when you know that as well as I do."

Snow shakes his head, his smile widening. "Oh Mr. Gavin, you are no doubt very clever and bright, but you should never assume that you know everything. Ah, perfect, here we are!"

He breaks away as the Avoxes return and set trays of fruit and small pastries in front of us. No doubt he's enjoying the way my eyes widened in desperation at his last words, the way my hands clenched the fabric of the couch. To cover the moment, I look towards where the female Avox and her companion are standing and reach for the food. And then my breath leaves me in a hiss as I see the second Avox next to her.

It's Eamon. He's dressed in the red uniform of the Avoxes and standing with his head bowed and hands clasped in front of him. I look back towards President Snow and see him watching me with a smile. Wicked and cruel as my old mentor was, I know that I'm truly looking evil in the eye. It's all I can do to not look away, even as I roll my tongue around in my mouth to make sure that it's still there.

"I'm going to tell you what happened in the arena, Mr. Gavin, and I would appreciate it if you were to not interrupt until I have finished. Your mentor, Eamon, was of course very invested in your death, seeing has how he had placed so many bets on it along with the rest of your district. Had you perished, your desire to see 7 burn may have indeed come to fruition. But you survived. Nevertheless, District 7 is about to see some difficult times ahead for it. But I digress. Eamon, increasingly desperate as you continued to survive, came up with a plan that he believed would draw you into a trap that you could not escape from. He and his friends among the Gamemakers took young Jason from 7 and placed him in the arena in order to lure you to the feast. Not only would you face three other dangerous tributes, but you would be hobbled by your efforts to protect his life as well as your own.

"Of course, it had to be ensured that Jason would never be in any real danger. The laws of the Treaty of Treason state that twenty four go into the arena, and twenty three do not return. Not twenty three and one extra. Had Jason perished, it would have been a direct violation of the Treaty of Treason on the part of the Capitol and could have sparked riots by people afraid that their loved ones would be next. So naturally, the Gamemakers put precautions in place to ensure that Jason would not ever truly be in danger. One such precaution was a tracker that sent an electrical shock through his body if he attempted to interfere or attempted to put himself into a dangerous situation. It almost worked.

"However, caught up in the drama of the last battle between you and Link, the Gamemakers lost control of the situation. They were sure that Link would finish you off and claim his victory, never dreaming that he would foolishly go for your lover first. At the last moment, the Gamemakers took a desperate course of action. They shocked Jason into unconsciousness. They hoped that this would remind Link who his real opponent was. In the end, it allowed you the distraction needed to end the Games and claim the victory for yourself. You were taken from the arena and Jason, his job finished, was returned to District 7 with no harm done.

"I will not deny that the attempts of your mentor and the Gamemakers nearly created a disaster for us all. Fortunately, it was averted. You can rest assured that there will be many new faces among the Gamemakers next year."

An electric current has been running through my body as the President has been speaking. I almost don't notice when he stops, and I can only manage four words. "I don't believe you."

"I thought we agreed that we would be honest with one another."

"I am being honest. I honestly don't believe you."

Snow smiles and turns to the television screen. He motion to the Avoxes and the female turns it on. The screen shows a full out celebration in District 7. Banners and flags are strewn across the shops, Justice Building, and the Tav. People are dancing in the square. Capitol reporters flit to and fro, taking interviews. I recognize a few faces. There's Mack, laughing with a pint in one hand and his wife on the other. And there next to him, surrounded by Capitol admirers in all colors, laughing as his golden hair glints in the sunlight, is Jason. Alive. Jason is alive.

"Is that why Eamon was turned into an Avox?" I ask, desperate for time to think.

"Partly. We do take near violations of the Treaty of Treason seriously. After the Games, Eamon's debt collectors came for him. He had the choice to go to debtor's prison, or the Peacekeepers. He chose to run for it. We caught him."

The screen is turned off and Snow turns back to me. "So, Mr. Gavin. About that arrangement..."

And now my mind is working like it's never worked before, faster than when I faced the tracker jackers, or tamed Abel, or desperately fought Link at the feast. Because Jason's life and health hangs in the balance of the next words I say.

I look at the president sitting next to me. Am I really doing this? Am I about to call the bluff of the most powerful man in the world? Yes, I really am. Because I'm the tree-elf of District 7 and I just won the fucking Hunger Games.

"I have to decline your offer, Mr. President, and I think you know why. You can't do anything to me because there are so many powerful people who support me. And so you think that by holding my loved ones in the balance, you can get me to cooperate with you. But the fact of the matter remains, the only one you can think of to hold against me is Jason. And Jason was seen by all of Panem just as I was. It's not just me who's adored in the Capitol, it's us. Those people who see me as their representative will want to see me happy with the man I came to the Feast to rescue. Their protection extends to Jason as well. "

The look on the President's face is enough to confirm that my hunch is correct, so I continue. "I don't think you're angry that the Treaty of Treason was nearly violated. I don't think you could care less. What you're truly angry about is that Jason's exploits in the arena robbed you of the ability to use his life against me. Which means you have nothing left to hold me with. Which means that if you're going to get me to cooperate with you, you're not going to threaten me. You're going to have to bribe me."

Snow's eyes have narrowed and his hand is clenching his glass. For one moment I think he's going to throw it at me and then he tilts back his head and laughs. "Oh Mr. Gavin, you are wasted in District 7. Have you thought about what your talent will be when you return? You might do well in exploring politics."

"I've been leaning towards writing smutty poetry."

"Well, I'm sure you'll do well with whatever you choose. I am, however, pleased to know that you're not adverse to cooperation." He leans back. "So, Mr. Gavin, it seems I have no choice. Name your terms."

The words come easily to me. "When I am in the Capitol, I will act like I'm enraptured by the power and beauty here. No one will doubt that my loyalty is to here and to you. I will treat you as I would a beloved uncle, someone whom I admire and hero-worship. In District 7, I'll make it known that I'm as Capitol-loving as Eamon ever was. More so. They've hated me for sixteen years, they can hate me as much as I hate them now. But when I'm in the District, I want to be left alone. Forgotten by the Capitol. Me and anyone else who is in my house in the Victor's Village. You leave me alone. I don't make trouble for you here. Your rivals will never hear a word against you from my lips."

Snow's eyes narrow. "You ask for a great deal."

"I know. Cheeky bloke, aren't I?"

"Well, I have no choice. But be aware, that if for any moment I feel as though you are not cooperating by our terms, I will have no choice but to...remind you of them."

"I understand."

"Well I think that's all, Mr. Gavin. Congratulations again on your victory." Snow turns to leave, but even as he starts to walk away I speak again.

"Mr. President? Sir? There is actually one more thing I would like."

The president turns. "Really? And what might that be?"

"I want an Avox."

He smiles indulgently. "Is that all? My dear boy, that is easily arranged-"

I lean forward and smile back. "Not just any Avox."

Snow looks over to where Eamon is standing with a terrified look on his face. His smile twists cruelly. "I'll send someone to make all the arrangements then." And with that he turns and in a moment he's gone.


	22. Chapter 22

Blight:

I can hear the roar of the crowd from down here beneath the stage. It's the night of my Victory Celebration, and I am shaking like an aspen leaf. I don't want to go out there, smile in front of the people who cheered as twenty three children died in the arena, relive the Games in the three hour recap, and then look into the eyes of President Snow for the first time since our exchange of pleasantries in the sitting room of my apartment in the Training Center. I don't want to, I really don't want to. But I have to. If I'm ever going to come home to Jason, I have to.

There's a small television in this dark room beneath the stage. I keep my eyes fastened to the screen in order to divert the treacherous tremblings that are coursing through my body and threatening to send me crashing to my knees. Fortunately, the first people to ascend onto the stage are my prep team, and I have to suppress a grin. Poppaea, Romulus, and Remus are in ecstatics, bobbing and bowing and gushing rainbows and happiness all over the stage. The crowd loves them. I'm glad that my winning the Hunger Games brought happiness to someone, even if I'm not my prep team's biggest fan. Sure, they did their best to make me memorable to all my sponsors, but I'm still not sure I forgive them for the loss of my chest hair.

Tutti Marble is next on stage, and I'm prepared to see her take the sheer nauseating joy of my prep team and multiply it by at least a dozen. I'm surprised in this, however. Tutti walks to the front of the stage, takes a deep bow, blows a couple of kisses to the adoring throng, and walks to the side. No hysterics, none of the overblown dramatics that I've come to expect from her. Madame Lucia has been a good influence, it seems. Tutti Marble has grown up a little.

And then Lucia is on stage, and the crowd's screams intensify. Lucia has been a legend for so many years, and the fact that she has styled yet another winning tribute is enough to cement her status as _the _stylist to watch in the Hunger Games. Being Madame Lucia, she looks nothing more than pleasantly grateful as she curtsies before the crowd, her silver robes billowing around her. Jules follows her almost immediately. The old man has taken the place of Eamon as my mentor. I have to shake my head at the fickle nature of the Capitol that had adored Eamon for the past ten years and now seemingly couldn't spare him another thought. I wonder how many people in the crowd tonight know that Eamon is present as well, dressed in a red uniform and silently serving drinks to the Gamemakers. Still, I'm overwhelmingly grateful that the cheerful Victor of the Seventh Hunger Games is the one who's receiving credit for my victory. After the saddle, gods know that he deserves it.

And then a Capitol attendant is motioning that it's time for me to step up onto the pedestal. I do so, and I begin to rise to the surface. My stomach lurches as for a moment I'm convinced that I'm back in the Stockyard, sure that when I reach a stop I'll open my eyes and see the Giants' City once again. But a few seconds later I'm in the open air, and the sound of the crowd threatens to knock me backwards, and when they get a glimpse of my face all they see is the small smile and bright eyes of their beloved tree-elf.

I step forward and raise a lazy hand, acknowledging the sounds of the crowd with a smile. My shimmersilk suit gleams with the patterns of leaves and symbols that dance across the fabric. I'm not wearing the pointed ears this time around, Victors are deserving of a little more dignity apparently, and there's no need to remind the crowd of who I am. They know.

Caesar Flickerman is there of course, joking with the audience and yelling over their continuous cheers. We shake hands, and then embrace as if we were friends, not a wounded kid who had just survived a gladiatorial death match and the man who hosted the event. Caesar introduces me, as if anyone needed reminding, and then leads me over to the Victor's throne. I sit in the ornate chair from where I will watch the recaps of the Games. I remember how many Victors look so uncomfortable sitting here, how others exude an attitude of arrogance, and how Lyme last year kept rolling her eyes as if none of this was worth her time. So I'm grateful to see when the enormous screens focus on my face that I show none of these emotions. My face is nearly blank, the smile gone. I don't look as if I'm happy to be here, but rather that I know that I deserve to be without rubbing it in the face of twenty three families who are no doubt still wailing in grief back in the districts.

The anthem plays and the recap launches right into the Reaping. I've prepared for this. Vera and Jules warned me how difficult it would be. Vera advised that I just bite my lip and find something in the crowd to focus on, while Jules offered to teach me his trick of sleeping with my eyes open. I thanked them for their concern, but I already had formed a plan of my own even as my prep team had prepared me for the event this morning.

Naturally, since I'm the Victor, much of the three hour recap is devoted towards me, but there's also a good portion focused on those whom I interacted the most with in the arena. Throughout the reapings, the chariot parade, and the interviews, I watch as Charlie and Devon smile, as Plautia teases, as Link scowls. And then the Games begin, and I focus on the screen with all the concentration I can muster. Twenty three kids had to die in order to put me on this chair. The least I can do is burn them into my memory so that I never forget that my life is and always will be a memorial to their deaths. And so it begins.

Kira, from 3, thrown into the lake by Quintus. Caraway from 5, killed by Romani at the bloodbath. Reesa from 6, who had her legs amputated by Link before Quintus finished her off. Cole, killed by the boy from 8 in a fight over a single water bottle. That same boy, Tune, speared through by Alabaster before she could kill his district partner. Owen, who had lingered too long at the Cornucopia and was cut down by Link as he tried to escape. Doralie and Rie, the tributes from District 12, who had held each other sobbing as Link and Alabaster finished them off. Clare, the girl with the angel's face, knifed in the back by Plautia before she could meet a more painful death. Chip, blown into pieces in front of my face by a Gamemakers' trap. Robin, killed by Plautia on one of the Career's expeditions out into the arena. Sower and Monaghan, dead in the foolish attempt to raid the Career's supplies that almost succeeded.

Bobbi, dead by her own poison as Charlie generously gave her food behind her back. Qin Li, panicked and out of her mind, knifed in the stomach by a frightened and bewildered Charlie. Plautia, throat slit by Alabaster for her attempt to spare Devon and I the torture planned for us. Devon, my friend, who died what is arguably the most horrific death the Hunger Games has ever seen. Alabaster, Tara, and Quintus, torn apart by the mutts that I called with the sound of my voice. I was surprised to learn that even though the mutts had done the dirty work, the three Careers had gone onto my kill list since it was me who summoned them to attack my enemies. Romani and Charlie, dashed at the bottom of the Ferris wheel from where they fell in combat. Abel, not a tribute per se, but a loyal friend who died to save my life. Link, killed by a spear that I hurled so hard it thrust itself halfway through his body.

All of their faces. All of their names. They've been filed away by the Capitol as Hunger Games deaths 1199 - 1221, but to me they will always be the boys and girls who could've come home if it weren't for me.

The recap finishes with me screaming Jason's name as we're carried into the hovercraft. As I watch his unconscious form fly up into the air, the memories of that moment rush back and I have to remind myself that he's not really dead. And then the anthem plays again and the crowd is cheering my victory. My name is chanted over and over again, along with Jason's. I see Caesar Flickerman smiling and laughing, getting the crowd riled up with his words, urging them to show their adoration for the lumberjack and the tree-elf.

"Surely, if there is ever a greater romance in the Games, it will shake the very foundations of Panem!" he shouts. I shake my head, smiling slightly. Caesar certainly knows how to play the crowd, but I'm sure he knows that if there's one thing that's going to shake Panem down to the core, it's not going to be a romance.

I stay in the Victor's throne as some more pleasantries are made and speeches are given. I only rise when President Snow steps onto the stage. I stand, smiling, giving the President a small wave. He grins at me and holds his arms out in greeting, and I quickly walk over to him. We grasp each other's forearms in greeting and then the President raises my hand to the crowd. Anyone watching us would imagine that our laughing, smiling faces hold genuine affection for each other. I pride myself that there are only two people in the nation who know the truth. Maybe three, if Madame Lucia is as astute as I know her to be.

The president takes the Victor's crown from a pillow carried by a small girl in a white dress and turns to me. As he places it on my head, our eyes meet and hold. I see no true affection there, but at the same time I see no dislike or loathing either. There is only a challenge, daring me to play my game a bit more, to push the President to a point where he pushes me back - hard. And in that challenge is a sort of begrudging respect. I imagine that such emotions such as loathing and dislike are too petty for the President of Panem to engage in. I can't imagine what someone would have to do to make Snow truly look at them with unbridled hatred. I hope I never find out.

The crowd is cheering. The anthem plays for a third time. I swear it's the only piece of music that they know here in the Capitol, and it's not even very good, something about stars and bombs and dawn's early light. Caesar Flickerman is telling everyone to tune into the final interview tomorrow. And then Capitol attendants are ushering me off the stage, and in the wings I'm embraced by Tutti and my prep team and Lucia. Jules is last and as he embraces me he whispers, "Just the interview. And then home."

Home. I'm going home. But what kind of home is waiting for me there?

"""""""""

A cool female voice sounds through the train car, announcing that we'll be reaching the station in District 7 in ten minutes time. I swallow the lump in my throat back down, ignoring the fluttering sensation in my stomach. This is it. It's time to face them.

I stand and look around the train one last time. Tutti is sitting between Jules and Vera, chattering away amicably. Jules is hooting with laughter at her various anecdotes, while Vera smiles appreciatively when she's not staring out the window with a vacant look in her eyes. I wish Lucia were here, because I'm sure she would get a kick out of my opinions of Tutti's new wig, which is now bright magenta. I grin to myself and keep silent. I tell myself it's because blistering satire is no good without an appreciative audience, and not because I'm actually growing fond of Tutti Marble.

Four Capitol attendants stand in the room in silence. The Capitol escort and three Victors disembark, it's they who will be carrying the wooden box containing Charlie's body out of the small room it's being held in to the small cemetery devoted solely to the tributes of the Hunger Games.

As I try to brush the wrinkles from my pants and vest, a small figure walks up and presses some sort of Capitol device to my clothes. It's warm, and the wrinkles are instantly smoothed out as my new Avox runs it up and down my clothes. The small, older woman has the blonde hair that's typical of many in District 7, but as she looks up at me I can see the look in her eyes that I know I must share, the look of someone from the Districts who has seen the worst the Capitol can offer.

"Thanks," I whisper to her as she finishes. She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze.

It was only last night, the night after my final interview, that a Capitol attendant had announced that he had retrieved the Avox that I had requested. And with that, my mother had swept into the room and we embraced for a long, long time. I told her of the arrangement I had made with President Snow, that he had agreed to give me an Avox of my choice. I told her, sounding like a gleeful child proudly displaying a mud drawing, that I had freed her, that she was coming home with me to live in luxury in the Victor's Village, and that she would never have to fear the Capitol again. It was my greatest triumph, greater than taming Abel, than my victory in the arena, than making President Snow dance to my tune.

It never occurred to me that she would refuse. But refuse she did. And over the course of that wonderful, terrible night she tried to make me understand, with sign language and writing. There was hardship in the Capitol, she said, but there were also people she cared about, people that depended on her. She told me that her position in the Capitol made her very important to certain 'interests,' and that one day I would understand. Then there was the fact that she refused to let President Snow know that she was my other weakness, the one person I cared about other than Jason. And she told me that she couldn't ever return to 7 and face my father, not after what he and my brothers had done to me. We would see each other again, she promised. I would return to the Capitol every year to mentor for the Hunger Games, after all. There were people who would be able to arrange meetings for us. This was not goodbye. And then she gave me a slip of paper with a name on it, and when I saw it, I knew I had to. How could I refuse, after all? Which is how I ended up with this Avox, whom I can never remember seeing before, but who has a devastatingly familiar face.

"District 7," says the female voice, and the train shudders to a stop. Tutti leads me to the door, my fellow Victors and my Avox behind me. An attendant gives a short bow and opens the door.

A rush of sound bursts out to meet me. The whole district is here, screaming and cheering and sobbing. Banners fly, streamers soar, my name echoes across the square. I step down and walk towards the Justice Building as if in a daze. Peacekeepers stand around keeping order, and Capitol reporters and cameramen crowd in on me, making sure to get pictures of every time my eyebrow raises or I turn slightly to the left.

"Let him breathe! Let him breathe!" shouts Jules, and the reporters fall back ever so slightly so I'm not crushed to death. I feel two thumps somewhere around my midsection, and I look down to see Merrill Mason grinning up at me, his arms wrapped around my waist. Below him, Johanna is clutching my leg, smiling her toothy toddler's smile. I bend down to look her in the eye, just as I did three weeks ago when I was nothing more than a scared tribute and she was the only one who showed any sort of confidence in me.

"You were right, little girl," I say.

She rolls her eyes. "Told you, lumber ass."

The picture of me in that moment laughing and holding Merrill and Johanna tightly is broadcast all over Panem in the coming weeks.

No sooner do I stand that someone else has wrapped himself around me, sobbing. I look at my brother Jonel, whose misery and guilt is etched clearly across his face. "Blight, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Blight, please, Blight," he stammers.

I push him off me. "Get off of it," I say. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? Your brother didn't come back from the Capitol."

A few steps further I come face to face with my father. I've been dreading this moment since I woke up in the Training Center after I won the Games, but I find to my surprise that I have no emotion left for this man. My suffering at his hands, my long years of abuse are over, and I don't have time to waste on him anymore. Still, we look at each other for several long seconds before I speak. "I saw Mom in the Capitol. I offered her the chance to come back with me. I'm a Victor, she could have. But she said she didn't want to see you again." I walk away, knowing from the look of pain on my father's face that in a few short sentences I have hurt him far more than he managed to in nine years.

The crowd follows me as I make my way to the Justice Building, where it's customary for the new Victor to greet the mayor of his or her district. This is the moment I have been afraid to face. I don't want to shake hands with Mayor Lourdes, to see the accusing stare of a man who wonders why I came home and not his daughter. But to my complete surprise, Mayor Lourdes is nowhere to be found. Instead, four people are waiting for me at the stage where the Reaping was held three long weeks ago. Reuben, the head of the lumber crews. Head Peacekeeper Core, immaculate in his dress whites. And there in the center, looking dignified and dreadfully official in their clearly newly tailored clothes, are Mack and his wife Evelyn.

Mack shakes my hand formally, and then embraces me tightly. "Welcome back, boyo. We knew you could do it. We knew it."

I look at him in confusion. "Mack, I don't understand. Where's the mayor?"

Mack grins. "You're looking at him, lad!" My face must be blank as a slate, because he laughs. "After Charlie...fell, Mayor Lourdes resigned, saying personal issues were interfering with his official duties. He nominated me as a deputy mayor until the elections, and it was made official last night."

I take in the golden pin on his silk tie, as well as Evelyn's new, clearly Capitol made dress. She winks at me.

"Well, at least they pay you well enough for it," I say. Evelyn and Mack look at each other conspiratorially, and then back at me. The smirks on their faces are familiar. They look exactly as I know I do when I'm up to some sort of mischief.

"Just because everyone else was betting on you dying in the Games, didn't mean we had to," says Mack. "We were the only ones who bet on you to win, and the payout was as about as good as you might expect." I laugh, long and loud at my former squad leader's audacity.

"And since everyone else lost their bets, the Capitol has no reason to be suspicious," Evelyn adds.

"Don't be too sure," I say, lowering my voice. "District 7 has caught the eye of a certain cold individual, who's not at all pleased how close your little betting conspiracy came to succeeding. You might keep an eye out for some changes."

Mack exchanges a look with Core, nodding at me to show he's understood. "Did your family give you any trouble?" he asks me.

"Not a bit," I say. "I didn't even see Abel."

"You won't again," says Mack. "We heard about Eamon here the night after it happened. Rumor has it your brother would have disappeared next if Core hadn't found him a place in the Peacekeepers and shipped him off to District 12. It was the only way we could keep him alive."

I incline my head at him. I'm not sure how I feel, except grateful that I won't have to meet my worthless brother face to face and simultaneously pleased that there's not another death to add to my account.

Tutti and the Victors pick this moment to interrupt us, and I'm grateful for their timing. Mack spares them a glance, and then his eyes fall upon the Avox behind them, the one my mother encouraged me to bring back from the Capitol. His face, to my supreme satisfaction, goes white as he sees the woman who so famously disappeared from District 7 thirteen years ago.

"Gods alive," he whispers. "Is that...that can't be..."

"Mr. Mayor, I'm sure you're familiar with Magdeline Lourdes," I say as I usher Charlie's mother towards him. "She's my new Avox. I'm sure that my business will carry her over to Mayor Lourdes's home quite often."

Mack looks at me, a sense of wonder in his eyes. "Who are you?" he asks. "You're not the boy who was carried off to the Capitol a few weeks ago."

"I should hope not," I reply, and then there's no more time for talk as pictures are taken, hands are shaken, speeches are made, and I grin and wave until I hurt. I'm taken to the Victor's Village, the area with twelve large mansions where Vera and Jules and now I live. A few more pictures are taken as I'm presented with the keys. I smile and wave as I open the door and enter.

I don't even take the time to remove my shoes. My eyes glance over the lush and luxurious interior as I make my way to the back of the house. I reach the kitchen and open a window. Climbing out, I jump easily to the ground and make my way towards the outskirts of the forest.

""""""""""

Jason:

I could hear the sounds of cheering even from here. It lasted for hours, and I know that Blight is home. He's home. He's back. But I don't want to meet him out there, surrounded by cameras and people and reporters. So I wait here. He'll know where to find me.

The sun is beginning to set as the door to the stable cracks open and a slight dark haired figure slips in. I'm leaning against the wall, watching him, remembering the first conversation we ever had in this dark place that smells of hay and horses. That one conversation, right before the reaping, that triggered the feelings I had harbored for a long, long time.

Blight - no, Levi, - Levi doesn't spare me a glance as he walks around the stable. The horses wicker their welcome, the cats dash out to purr against his leg. He greets all of them in turn, whispering things I can't hear. Finally, he turns to me, and his bright eyes are filled with fire and warmth.

"Hi Levi," I say.

"Hello Jason,"

"You're back."

"I am."

"And I'm here."

"You are."

Gods, I'm still such an idiot. I look down, staring at the floor. "So, what now? I mean, now that we're together-"

"Together? What do you mean?"

My heart drops into my stomach as I look up at Levi and see the smirk on his face, the callous look he gave to me and Connell and Tobin and the others for so many years. I find that I can't string the words together.

"Well, I just thought, you know, after everything, that maybe, you and I -" I drift off into nothingness.

Levi looks at me with a sort of sad pity. "Oh Jason, you're not serious are you? I mean let's face it, we hardly know each other." I can feel my body turn to ice as he continues. "What have we ever done together? We talked in this stable. We fought in the Justice Building after your buddies volunteered me for the Games. And then I had to gut a kid just to keep you from getting sliced open in the middle of the Hunger Games. That's not exactly enough to base a relationship on."

I'm staring at the ground, hands folded behind my back, trying to figure out how it all went so wrong. And then Levi is next to me, and he puts his hand on my shoulder.

"So, tonight, dinner at my place, eight o' clock, and we can start to get to know each other."

And then he's turned and he's nearly at the door of the stable before I catch up to him and spin him around and kiss him. I'm holding him against me, and his warmth floods my body, and his arms are wrapped around me as I hold one hand around his waist and put the other on the back of his head so he couldn't break away even if he wanted to.

Finally, we have to continue breathing. Levi raises one eyebrow as I try to stop panting. "Or we could just make out in the stable for a while."

"No time," I say. "I've got a date tonight and I need to get ready."

Levi laughs, long and clear. "Oh, Jason."

"Levi."

We say it together. "You're such a bastard!"


	23. Chapter 23

Johanna Mason:

The house is quiet, dusty, as it has been for nearly three years now. I sit on the plush couch, trying not to sink too far down into the upholstery, as the smallest movement causes clouds of dust to rise up in gentle wisps, reminiscent of the ghost of the man who inhabits this place. This house could be one of any of the uninhabited ones in the Victor's Village if it weren't for a few telltale personal signs. A shimmersilk scarf laid on the mantelpiece. A few letters in elegant handwriting on the table. And of course, the massive portrait that hangs over the fireplace, depicting a handsome young man dressed all in black, staff raised triumphantly in one hand, as the savage golden pony he rides rears up in defiance. I grin to myself each time I see it. Blight hated that painting with a burning passion from the moment it arrived as a gift from one of his patrons in the Capitol. Jason, on the other hand, roared with laughter at the ostentatiousness of the piece and the look of disgust on his lover's face and insisted that it be hung in the place of honor in the sitting room.

Twenty years later, it's still here. Jason, of course, is not.

A burst of dust leaves me coughing, and I rise from the couch and walk over to the mantle of the fireplace. Below the painting is a small photograph. Two boys, young men really, arms swung over each other, laughing on the beaches of District 4 during Blight's Victory Tour twenty-three years ago. Jason looks the same as always, of course. The laughing smile that never faded, the face that seemed to be blessed with perpetual youth, the eyes that never ceased to look at anyone with kindness. Blight, on the other hand. There's so little resemblance between the man I know and the boy in the picture who became a legend two decades ago. Not in appearance so much, among all the Victors Blight is one of the few who never turned to drink or drugs to numb the memories of the Hunger Games. He had Jason, after all. So his body remains strong, his face that of a man ten years younger. But he's no longer the devil-may-care bastard who smiled easily and wickedly. He's not even the serious, somber man I knew when I was reaped myself all those years ago. His eyes have that deep, dead look in them, as if all the life in them had been extinguished. The same look that Haymitch has. And Cecelia, on occasion. Enobaria. Myself.

I shake my head as I walk around the room. It seems foolish to compare myself to Blight, as Victors we couldn't be more different. I have my reputation, carefully cultivated, as the hellfire bitch of District 7. Eat your vegetables, or Johanna Mason will come! Stop fighting with your sister, or I'll call Johanna! That's what mothers tell their children in the Capitol. I'm the monster under their beds. In the district, I'm left pretty much alone, although they can't help sending me looks of pity as I pass, no matter how much I may hate it. They all know, although the reports are that my family died in a freak accident. They know how I refused President Snow, defied him, told him I wouldn't be his little toy. Blight was able to win that fight, before Snow had absolute power. I was not. I watched as my family, Mother, Merrill, and the others died in a hail of gunfire before my eyes. I'm a tragic figure here. A fearsome disaster.

Blight, on the other hand, well, he's the district shame. Not because of what he's done, but because of what was done to him. Sold to the Hunger Games so that the district could bet on him, we all know the story. People fear Blight, have left him alone. If Blight ever had the desire to show kindness or generosity towards the people of his district, then he did it through Jason. People skirted him in the roads, like they avoid me. We would all watch him on the screens in the Tav as he laughed with his Capitol friends during each year's trip to the Capitol. The powerful friends and allies that assured his and Jason's survival. Cold, some called him. Unfeeling. A heart of ice. But no one had the courage to call him a traitor to his district. No one expected him to have any loyalty to us.

They were wrong, though. Only a few people know, but they were wrong. Blight did care, he was capable of compassion and comfort, and that side of him came out each year when a child was placed under his care in the Hunger Games. He did his best to be there for them, to comfort them, encourage them, make sure their last days were not ones of total despair. He did this unfailingly, no matter who the kid was. Even when Connell, a man who had tortured Blight throughout his childhood, came to Blight when his youngest brother was reaped. A strange reversal, it was, the former tormentor on his knees, crying and begging Blight to bring young Connor home. If ever Blight had a reason to forsake a tribute, it was then. The kinsman of one of the men who conceived his betrayal. But no matter who Blight became, he always resolved that he would never be Eamon. And that year, Connor came home, broken and silent, but alive.

Blight wasn't my mentor, Vera was. She gave up on me before the train even reached the Capitol. I was satisfied with my success, my plan after all hinged on everyone drastically underestimating me. But Blight figured it out. Or perhaps he always knew. He may not be Nuts and Volts level of genius, but no one knows duplicity and deceit like Blight does. He knew. He went to his powerful friends, got sponsors, not for his own tribute but for me. He sent the ax in a parachute that saved my life, allowed me to spring my trap. He was there to warn me not to cross the President, although I didn't listen. And as I lay in my new empty house, shaking and raging and wailing, Jason came through the window, scooped me up and carried me over to their house, and it was only there that I ever felt safe again, with Jason holding me in his arms and Blight bustling around making tea like some deranged Capitol housewife. All those in Blight's home were to be left alone. That was the deal that Blight made with the President, and it had only ever been meant for Jason. Entrance into his home for anyone else was unheard of.

I feel him behind me despite not noticing him enter. Even at nearly forty, Blight still has the ability to move silently, although the thick layer of dust on the carpet surely helps. I turn. He's smiling at me, gentler than he used to, but no longer with any humor behind it.

"Sit down, Johanna," he says.

"I'd rather not," I reply. "I can't imagine that Haymitch's place is much dirtier than this."

"You wound me, Johanna."

"You can't say it wasn't deserved."

His stern face is offset by that fact that I can always tell when his eyes are smiling. "And speaking about our dear fellow Victor from exotic and lovely District 12, I just got off the phone with him. And you'll no doubt be enthralled to hear what he's come up with this time."

I glance around the room. "You're sure it's safe to talk about it here?"

"Volts says so. And I trust him. Well, no I don't trust anyone, but I believe him."

I sigh. "Very well. What did dear Booze O'Bum say?"

He grins at me. "You know why the Quarter Quell was announced? The real reason behind it?"

"Yeah, Snow's furious at the lovebirds, and he's going to kill two birds with one stone. Literally in this case. Remove the Rebellion's most fervent supporters and its symbol of resistance in one go."

"So I can imagine you know the plan already?"

"Yeah, if one of us is reaped, we make sure to come home and begin reorganizing, this time with a figurehead who occasionally acts like she's off the rag."

Blight full out laughs at this. "Unfortunately, people like dear Ms. Everdeen only come around once every hundred years or so. Haymitch and Heavensbee have made it clear, and the other Victors agree. We're going into the arena with one goal in mind, and that's to get the Mockingjay and her boy toy out of there alive."

It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in, and then I'm screeching at him. "What? WHAT! No way! No way am I risking my life for that puffed up, pin-headed, prissy, dewy-eyed, camera-kissing little tramp! No way!"

"You will if you want the Rebellion to have its Mockingjay," says Blight. "You will if you were serious when you told Heavensbee that you were willing to do anything to bring Snow down."

"I know, but I thought he meant, like, torture or dismemberment. Not having to schmooze up to Katniss The Edible Root Freaking Everdeen!"

"I know, Johanna, I know. If it were up to me, I'd be in the control room doing everything in my power to get you back home. But it's not up to me, you know that, and we need to think about the big picture here, no matter how much we wish that Cinna had lit Everdeen with real flames instead of synthetic ones."

I look at his disgruntled face, a smile crossing my lips despite myself. "Don't tell me you're still jealous that her costume at the Opening Ceremonies was better than yours."

He looks at me, affronted. "What? No! Of course not! The very idea." Blight continues with some unintelligible muttering, in which the words 'Bitch on Fire' are clearly discernable.

"Anyway, that's not our job, at least not at the beginning. Being Everdeen and Mellark's bodyguard is Finnick's job. We all know that he's going to be Reaped. And Jade and Nolan have agreed to join him if they end up in the arena. And eventually we'll meet up with them. So try not to pull an Enobaria and rip her throat out until we're off camera and the war is over, okay? Restrain yourself, at least in the beginning."

I raise an eyebrow at him, an expression that I picked up from him. "As long as you're able to restrain yourself and not kiss Mellark in front of Everdeen, at least in the beginning. Take him out to dinner first."

Blight looks at me, mouth agape. "Peeta Mellark is twenty- three years my junior, you repulsive woman!"

"You're old, Blight, but you're not dead yet. Or blind."

He shakes his head. "I have no aspirations on Peeta Mellark. And no delusions either, just because he's a Mellark, doesn't mean..."

His eyes are distant, and I know that he's lost in the nightmare once again. The terrible nightmare that's lasted three years for him.

It came to District 7 in the height of summer that year. The Great Sickness that had swept through several times before, this time more fierce than ever. The Bleeding Blight, we appropriately called it. It struck the very old and the very young first, as sicknesses tend to do. But then it spread, and it spread quickly. The names of the victims grew by the day. Vera, my old mentor and the only other female Victor of District 7. Greta and Reuben, the local leaders of the rebellion. The merchant area was hit hard, and many of the District's well-to-do found that their money couldn't save them. Ex-Mayor Lourdes, his daughters, their families, the blonde Avox who attended them, all wiped out. The Tav sat silent and empty, occasionally echoing the wails that rang across the square.

Blight wasn't home at the time. He and Connor were mentoring the Seventy Second Hunger Games. But I was, I refused to go to the Capitol, and who on earth was going to make me? Jason was home as well, and of course he was never one to stay away when people needed aid. He used the pension given each month to Blight and himself to buy food for the sick, medicine for the hospital that had been set up in one of the lumber warehouses for the many, many sick and dying. And of course he was there with the best of us, going from bed to bed, making jokes with the kids, helping to bathe the elderly, changing sheets, boiling water. He had refused to slow down, insisting that he wasn't wearing himself out, even when he began to cough uncontrollably and his handsome face grew as white as a sheet. It wasn't until the blood began to pour from his nose and ears that I convinced him to return with me to the Victor's Village.

I tended to him there as best as I could, even though I knew that there was virtually no hope for anyone who displayed symptoms as quickly as Jason had. But through a supreme effort of will, Jason managed to stay alive until the Games had ended. I was there, wiping his sweating face when I heard the footsteps thundering up the stairs. The door burst open, and when I saw the look on Blight's face, I was scared. Johanna Mason, the girl who feared nothing and no one, was afraid for my friend in that moment. But I merely handed Blight my cloth and took my leave. He nodded his thanks but his eyes were all for the man wasting away on the bed in front of him.

I went home, lay on my bed, and listened. Sure enough, a few hours later, the whole Village rang with the despairing wails of a man whose heart had broken.

The hovercrafts came a few days later, on a mercy mission with medicine from the Capitol, ready to heal us all with a miracle cure before there were too few of us left to work in the forests. The confirmation came a few days after that, from Haymitch via Heavensbee. The Bleeding Blight had been manufactured in the Capitol. Its target was the long-hidden District 13, meant to decimate and sterilize their ranks. But the Capitol had needed a test subject first, and the expendable lumberjacks had sufficed. But it had a side effect that hadn't been anticipated. Blight had become the final Victor to join the Rebellion, now that, like the rest of us, he had nothing to live for beyond revenge.

"Blight?" I say after a few moments, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry," he says. "Anyway, protecting Everdeen isn't our original job, that's Odair and company, as I said. Seeder, Chaff, Rivina, and Cecilia, in the meantime will attempt to lure the Careers away from our precious Mockingjay, taking as many with them as they can manage."

I snort in disdain. "Cecilia? Really? Even if she is reaped, you think she could go against a Career?"

"She wasn't called the Angel of Death for nothing. Ten kids died at her hand once before."

"Ugh," I say, "I'm so glad I was never a Victor who got a nickname. The Angel of Death. The Tree-Elf. The Mockingjay. It's so pathetic."

"Anyway," Blight interrupts loudly, "That's not our job either. You and Connor and myself get a much better assignment. Much more dangerous, much more filled with glory and prestige. We get to make sure that Nuts and Volts don't kill themselves off before we can get them to Everdeen."

He waits for my swearing and shouting to stop, which admittedly takes a few minutes. It's only before I let out a strangled "WHY!" that he answers.

"Because Nuts and Volts are the ones that are going to break you folks out of the arena so you can get out and do some good in this world."

"Oh that's just great," I say. "Just grand. Babysitting two old cuckoos while they fiddle around with - wait. Wait a minute. What do you mean 'you folks?'"

He looks at me sadly. "Johanna..."

"No," I say. "No. You're coming home. If I have to deal with Nuts and Volts and Everdeen, you're going to be with me every step of the way. You don't have a choice."

"Johanna, I'm an old man-"

"You're not even forty!"

"And I've had twenty years of happiness. I'm ready to leave. I'm ready to put an end to it all. Maybe I'll survive, maybe the gods have some further purpose for me. But in the arena, I'm not going to put my survival on the rungs of the ladder. Not above yours, not above Odair's, not above Everdeen's So when there's risk to be taken, or a sacrifice to be made, I'm the one making it, no arguments. Okay?"

"But, but." To my horror, tears are welling in my eyes. "But you can't leave me. You're all I have left. Your-your home. You're the only one I have left to love."

"And when I'm gone, you'll find new ones to love, Johanna. Finnick cares for you. Annie likes you, or she would if you would give her a chance. You might even find that you have more in common with Everdeen than you think."

"Horse dung."

"We'll see. But no arguments anymore Johanna. We'll cross bridges as we come for them. In the meantime, let's figure out how we're going to save Nuts and Volts from themselves."

Despite myself, I curl up against Blight on the couch. "I can't believe our role in the great Rebellion is babysitting District 3."

"So glamorous. Oh, and I have another job as well. Haymitch wants me to write Finnick a poem."

I look at him. "A poem? What for?"

"For the interviews. You know how much the Capitolian women, and a lot of the men, are enthralled with him. Haymitch wants me to write something that will tug at their heartstrings, make them feel the loss of their beloved Finnick Odair, send them in to wails of despair and screams of grief."

Blight's talent is writing poetry. He's known in the Capitol for his reflections on nature's beauty, his lyrics about the simplicity of love, his verses extolling the virtue of the Capitol. Of course, I've seen the stuff he doesn't show to everyone, the brutal satire on the private lives of government officials, and the pure, unadulterated smut that he publishes under a pen name and is ravenously devoured in the Capitol.

"Finnick will be thrilled, I'm sure," I say.

Blight laughs. "It will surely be my greatest work. I just hope Finnick doesn't actually read it before he's onstage."

The tears that come are mingled with laughter and crying, as Blight and I lay on the couch together for the last time, sharing memories, old jokes, and secrets. We talk long into the night. Let the Quarter Quell come, we say. Tonight, it doesn't intrude into this old house in the Victor's Village.

"""""""""

Blight's story does not have a happy ending. Nothing anyone can do or say will change that. His story ended abruptly, almost in obscurity, a brutally anti-climactic close. But Blight had, as he said, twenty years of happiness, and he knew that he would be content with that.

It was raining lightly on the morning of the Reaping. The four Victors stood by as Lola Puddlemeer - Tutti Marble had flatly refused to attend - drew Johanna's single slip from the bowl. And then Connor, Blight, and Jules had only a moment to give each other wry glances as the slip was chosen and the name Blight Gavin was called.

They were shipped off to the Capitol together. No one said much. There wasn't anything left to be said after all. The Opening Ceremonies came. Messalina had, as expected, dressed Blight and Johanna as trees. Blight had persuaded Madame Lucia that this was not going to be a good year to be a stylist, but he found himself regretting it as he watched Katniss and Peeta on the screens looking like they had stepped out of the depths of the fire. However, it was worth it as he and Chaff and Haymitch watched Johanna strip in front of Katniss. Both Haymitch and Chaff bought Blight a drink after that one.

Johanna, at Blight's insistence, attended all three days of training, preparing her body and mind and reporting back about the dynamic between the Victors. Blight however had better things to do with his last days. He locked himself in his room for hours, refusing all visitors, and wrote letters. Letter after letter after letter. To his mother, saying how much he missed her. To his father, saying that he had finally learned to forgive him. To his nieces and nephews reminding them to watch after the horses when he was gone. To his dear friend Tutti Marble, thanking her for all she had done for himself and Jason. To Madame Lucia, a letter of chatter and gossip, knowing that she would be able to decipher the code that would give her the location of a safe house where she could stay during the inevitable attack on the Capitol. To Peeta Mellark, saying things that only someone who knew what it meant to be totally, irrevocably in love would understand. And to the man he thought of every day, every hour of his life for twenty-three years, he merely wrote "You know I'll see you soon."

The interviews came, and the Victors were masterful. The pleas, the thanks, the humble platitudes that whipped the audience into a frenzy. Blight stayed almost silent, thanking Caesar for everything but saying very little else. He gave the Capitol audience nothing more than a small smile, one that was shared by Johanna. Both of them had seen the glares that Finnick Odair was shooting Blight, and both of them knew that Odair hadn't, in fact, read the poem before he got onstage.

The Games came. Not twenty four frightened children this time, but twenty four broken individuals who, despite everything, had grown to be friends and now were forced to fight one another, to break that last bond they had held onto. The bloodbath was filled with tears and apologies. Johanna managed to get a hold of a shaking Wiress, but she saw no sign of her district partner or her other charge until she noticed Beetee making a mad dash towards the Cornucopia to seize a coil of golden wire. He managed to get his prize, but not before Enobaria stabbed him in the lower back. He gave a cry of pain as Enobaria advanced on him, prepared to finish the job, but then it was her turn to be knocked to the ground. She spun over, a snarl on her lips, but even the fearsome Victor from 2 paused as she looked into the terrible eyes of the Tree-Elf of District 7 as he stood over her, staff in hand.

It was enough time for Chaff and Seeder and Cecilia to see what was happening and go after Enobaria themselves. Enobaria was forced to retreat, calling for Brutus. Blight, meanwhile, merely picked up Beetee, slung him over his shoulder, and waded out into the water, headed for the shore. Johanna and Wiress were right behind him.

Strangely, being back in the arena had an invigorating effect on Blight. He felt more alive than he had in years, knowing that he only had a few days left to make an impact in the world. He attempted to entertain a shaking Wiress with bawdy tales of unusual places he and Jason had lost themselves in passionate embraces, distracted them from their ever mounting thirst with insulting jokes about District 3, and wondered out loud to all three of them whether Finnick would ever live down the shame of having said "jiggling bazumkas" on national television.

They all heard the thunder, and then the rain. They dashed through the forest, mouths open. But then the rain began to fall, and they learned to their horror that it was blood. Blight shouted to the others, determined to get them out of the trap. He led the way. His body was no longer as fit or as lean as it had been, the forest was far different from the pines and oaks of District 7, but Blight was still the tree-elf he had been and led them on a clear path, faster and faster until he was brought to an abrupt halt by the force field that stopped his heart, killing him instantly.

The extraordinary life of Blight Gavin had been cruelly brought to its end, and not even his only friend had a moment to spare to mourn him. Johanna took the lead, bringing District 3 out of the jungle even as Blight's body was lifted away behind them. They found Finnick, Everdeen and Mellark the next day. Johanna told them what had happened, grateful that the blood hid the tears that she knew were on her face.

"I'm sorry, Johanna," said Finnick.

"Yeah, well, he wasn't much, but he was from home," she replied. Only Finnick knew just what 'home' meant to Johanna.

They say that a mockingjay flapping its wings in a forest can cause a storm on the prairie. Blight and Katniss never met, never said a single word to each other, but the lives of the Tree-Elf and the Mockingjay were entwined more than either of them would ever know. Had Blight not saved Beetee from Enobaria, the Victors would never have escaped from the arena, Katniss would have never become the Mockingjay, the districts would have never rallied around her. But he did, and Katniss did escape, and she made it to the long-hidden District 13.

It was there that she truly became the Mockingjay, and saved Johanna's life while she was at it. It was also there that she met a cattle rancher from District 10 named Dalton. Dalton showed her nothing but kindness and understanding, although she would never find out why. Primrose Everdeen did, however. Everyone could talk to Prim, and did, and Dalton told her that he knew what she had been through, he knew what it was like to have someone you love go to the Hunger Games. He had felt her pain when his brother Devon was reaped, when he was tortured to death in front of the boy who became the Victor that year.

The war came. Images of Katniss Everdeen were broadcast to all the networks. One of them showed her in District 8, standing behind a burning hoverplane that she had just brought down. "If we burn, you burn with us!" she shouted. And burn that plane did, along with several Peacekeepers, including a man by the name of Abel Gavin.

The invasion was planned, executed. Snow fell. The Capitol fell. Coin fell. Paylor became president. The Hunger Games were finally ended. The government was reorganized. It wasn't perfect, but it was better. Much, much better.

There was so much to do, so many elections to hold, resources to distribute, infrastructure to be rebuilt. So it wasn't until almost a year after the fall of the Capitol during the renovation of a former government building devoted to the Games that the morgue was found. Inside, frozen and forgotten, were the unclaimed victims of the Seventy Fifth Hunger Games. Blight was among them, eyes still glassed and wide open, hand clutched around a small wooden coin with an etching of a rearing horse.

He was taken back to District 7. A small funeral was planned by Johanna, who had returned, and Mack, the longtime mayor of 7. They decided on a quiet affair, although Johanna mentioned something to Haymitch, which is why Katniss gave her a call a few days before the burial. She expressed her condolences, and Johanna shook them off. "He died for the same reason that Finnick did, and Boggs, and all the others. He wouldn't want us to mourn him. I doubt anyone will remember him." Katniss was silent for a long time afterwards.

The day of the burial couldn't have been more different than the final reaping. A beautiful spring day, the sun high and bright. It had meant to be a small affair, but no one had anticipated how many people had been touched by Blight. Mack and Evelyn presided, with Johanna giving the first eulogy. Annie was there, sobbing into Beetee's shoulder. Half the district was there as well, with representatives from the Rebellion and District 13. Lucia stood, tall and imposing in her signature silver, moving only to hand Tutti Marble a handkerchief.

Johanna had told Katniss she didn't need to come, that she had been to enough funerals in the past year. Katniss, being Katniss, came anyway. She owed a debt to this man, one she had never spoken to but was willing to die to get her and Peeta out of the arena alive. And Katniss Everdeen repays her debts. She hugged Annie, embraced Johanna, shook hands with Mack. She gave Peeta's regrets. He had suffered an unusually powerful flashback the other day, and the doctor insisted on bed rest. In her hands, Katniss held a book filled with pictures and neat, tidy writing. She pasted the picture of two smiling young men on a beach in District 4 to a blank page, and wrote down a few treasured sentences that Johanna and Mack relayed. And then she looked at the headstones, and silently passed the book to Johanna. She knelt down, not at the newly erected monument, but at the slightly weathered one besides it. Her fingers traced the name carved there.

"I never even knew he had relatives in 7," she whispered.

The service ended, Blight's body was trusted to the keeping of the gods and buried. The crowd departed, heading down the windswept hill towards the village, where they would celebrate Blight's life late into the night at the Tav. Johanna was the last to leave and it was she who placed the small wooden coin among the bouquets of flowers before she too turned away. The two stones remained alone, solitary, their epitaphs a witness to the two lives that had been entwined for so long, and for so much good.

BLIGHT GAVIN

A TREE ELF

NO MAN WAS EVER SO BRAVE

"""""

JASON MELLARK

A LUMBERJACK

NO MAN WAS EVER SO LOVED


End file.
